


so close to the real thing

by spikenard



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Infidelity, Older Man/Younger Woman, Politics, Slow Burn, power couples
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-05-22 07:29:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6070537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikenard/pseuds/spikenard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“A desire for privacy shouldn’t be considered synonymous with having something to hide.” </p><p>It’s a politician’s answer, and they both know it. </p><p>“Of course,” Angelica says, softly. “You’re a famously private man, Mr. Washington.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, up-front: this is self-indulgent as all hell. It is probably not going to be everybody's cup of tea. There is a really big age gap, and some twisty power dynamics as a result. The main / POV character has some hangups about this. I've chosen not to warn - no underage activity occurs, but if you have specific concerns feel free to message me [on tumblr](http://spikenards.tumblr.com/).
> 
> I'm not sure how regular updates will be. edit: **ON HIATUS**. I will either finish this fic or post my notes if I'm not able to complete it.  
>  Thanks to everyone I threw drafts at for putting up with me; special thanks to [dactylospora](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dactylospora) for beta and to [rosening](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rosening) for making me use LDR lyrics for the title.
> 
> edit: thanks also to the INCREDIBLY TALENTED anonymous submitter who DREW FANART of a scene in this chapter; you can see the art [here](http://spikenards-arch.tumblr.com/post/139890777214/).

Angelica’s never been to a party like this as a girlfriend before.

As a daughter, sure — half a dozen events a year, up until she couldn’t get away with bringing a book along. But her dad hasn’t dragged her to anything since she finished school and moved back down to the District. And, of course, she couldn’t have gone to anything with John. Back in New York, they’d been worried about getting photographed together at anything more formal.

She expected it to be... different, somehow. But honestly, it’s pretty much the same. She should have worn a different dress if she wanted these men to take her seriously, she thinks, only a little sour, but she’s used to that by now.

She’s not showing as much skin as any of the other trophy girlfriends, but the cut and color of her dress is wrong — she’s wearing orange, with a high neckline and her arms exposed. When John told her there was a fancy dress house party, she was expecting this to be — well, a different sort of event. In his words: “just a get together with some friends.” Angelica wasn’t expecting a catered gala at some enormous McMansion in the suburbs.

Everyone here is in a nice work suit, showing off their brand new watches; the women are mostly wearing slinky black numbers and gold. A few, presumably the more daring, are wearing red with diamonds.

The decor is nice, but it’s all recent work, put in in the last ten years and trying to look like genuine craftsmanship. None of the books have been read, and none of them are first editions.

Angelica is spending her time investigating the books, hoping, dimly, to find something worth reading, even though she knows she can’t actually hide with a book the way she could at a party at home. For one thing, she doesn’t know where the good hiding places are.

She keeps checking her watch. (Ferragamo, orange, hideously ugly but it matches this dress, which is her favorite. A present from John. She’s wearing it as a gesture, even though she hates it, specifically, and wearing women’s watches, more generally. He likes to see it on her, and it was good of him to come to D.C.).

Occasionally, a tiny anxious blonde woman — Angelica is pretty sure it’s the host’s wife or girlfriend — comes over, and Angelica has to smile and make vague conversation at her until she leaves again.

She’s being horribly rude, and she knows that, but she’s here because her parents are out of town and John can actually take her out for once, and that matters to him. She doesn’t actually care about his work friends, or making conversation with any of their wives.

Probably she should, but this party is boring and she only has to stay here for... She checks her watch again. It’s only been an hour and twenty minutes. She has to wait while John socializes for another hour before she can lean on his shoulder and talk him into calling a car. Maybe fifty minutes, if she plays her cards right. She can do anything for that long, as long as she doesn’t have to hear a harried thirty-year-old expound the virtues of motherhood while pointedly eyeing Angelica’s bare ring finger.

Angelica’s taken refuge on the edges of the room — ideally, she’ll find somewhere quiet to sit. She’s already considered hiding in the kitchen with catering, but she hasn’t done that since she was twelve.

That’s when she sees him. She’s edging along the wall, hoping to find another tiny library cubby to duck into — one far enough away from the main throng that no one will follow her there — when she notices Washington tucked away in a corner.

This isn’t the kind of party she’d normally expect a senator at; it’s unusual enough that John’s usual Wall Street friends are congregating in D.C. rather than the city, for once. She wonders why Washington’s palling around with financiers ten year younger than him. Maybe he’s trying to start raising funds to get reelected? But it’s awfully early in his term for that.

She wonders, vaguely, if he’s amping up to run for a higher office; she can’t say she’s particularly invested in his career, but she’s curious. For once, she actually _wants_ to talk to someone here.

She heads across the room to him, where he’s got his head ducked, engaged in conversation with an aide, or maybe an intern, fresh-faced and probably fresh out of undergrad — the kid’s wearing a fraternity pin on his lapel. He can’t be that much younger than Angelica.

“Senator,” Angelica says. Washington turns to face her. She’d interrupted him on a smile and it’s still on his face, though his eyebrows are raised.

He’s a politician, though, and he rallies. Washington’s stiff surprise softens, and she can see him doing all the things she’s taught herself to do over the years. Face someone, mirror their body language. Point your feet at them. Damningly, though, it all seems sincere on him; Angelica can’t find a tell on him at all.

He’s shifting his glass — something brown and expensive, with two unchipped cubes of ice floating in it — into his other hand, and gestures at his aide, who melts away.

He holds his hand out. Angelica shakes it, and his hand still swallows hers up; his fingertips are pressed against her pulse. His grip is firm and his palm is dry.

“Nice to see you,” he says, low and familiar and professionally practiced. He’s still smiling at her, distant and polite the way he must be with every other political wife he’s met and forgotten over the course of his career.

Angelica is about to remind him who she is — it’s a blow to her pride that he doesn’t remember her, but he can’t have met her more than a few times, briefly, mostly before she left for college. That was seven or eight years ago; her father’s tendency to brag about his children must only do so much — when he continues.

“Miss Schuyler. Are you looking for your father? I wasn’t aware he was currently in the District.”

Angelica squeezes her fingers against the meat of Washington’s thumb for another beat, and then relaxes her grip. He doesn’t release her hand.

“He’s at home in New York,” Angelica says. She wants to say something about how it’s her parents’ anniversary, that they were so disappointed that she didn’t take the weekend and fly up to Albany to spend time with the family, the way they do every year. Even though she visited in August, and she’ll be back at home for Thanksgiving.

Angelica’s got things to do while they’re out of town. But Washington’s never been a close family friend, and this isn’t a Friday night in sweatpants complaining over wine with her college friends. And anyway, she’s here with —

“That’s a shame,” Washington is saying. “I was looking forward to asking him about — oh, well, I’m sure hearing shop talk must bore you to tears by now.” He smiles at her, conspiratorially, and finally (finally) lets go of her hand. “Your father’s very proud of you — Yale is an excellent school, of course — but you didn’t study politics, did you?” He glances away from her, makes eye contact and waves a few fingers at a waiter, and Angelica is suddenly furious. She wishes she’d worn a different dress.

She fights the urge to wipe her hand off on her dress, and makes her face into a mask. She can do this. This is what always gets her into trouble. He’s not even being dismissive; Washington is famously, painstakingly polite. With everyone.

When he turns back to her, she says, “I actually just finished at Columbia.”

Washington says “Oh, of course. Yale was undergrad?”

Angelica nods. “Got my Masters in philosophy. I’m thinking about going back and finishing a Ph.D., but —”

A waiter appears at her elbow with a half-empty tray of champagne and Angelica breaks off.

“You didn’t have a drink, so I took the liberty.” Washington says. He’s smiling at her, still, with professional distance.

Angelica takes a glass, because the alternative is to feel like she’s eighteen years old again, sober and smug about it until she had to hold Peggy’s hair back in the rose garden. Too young, full of affected world-weariness, and out of place at a party like this. If she doesn’t take it, she’ll look...

Well, anyway, she’s twenty-five goddamn years old and bored out of her skull at a fancy party. She can drink if she wants to.

“Thank you,” Angelica says, after a sip. She meant it for the waiter, but he’s dissipated back into the crowd, and she ends up saying it to Washington. She can feel her cheeks burning a little at his chuckle, and has another sip of champagne.

It’s nice, Angelica figures. It’s not the cheap kind, at least, that’s about as far as her expertise goes, and it goes down easy. Angelica likes sparkling wine, though, and takes another sip to savor the bubbles against her tongue for a moment before she swallows.

Washington is still holding his glass in his left hand, and he swirls it — for a minute Angelica wonders if he’s trying to draw attention to his wedding ring, glinting in the low lighting, but then he offers his glass to her. She blinks at it.

“A toast!” Washington says. “To higher education,” and waits until she clinks before he drinks.

Angelica takes another sip. She holds her tiny mouthful behind her teeth, lets the bubbles prickle. Washington drinks deep — finishes the inch and a half left in his glass, lets the ice cubes clatter a bit as he lowers his hand — and she watches his throat work as he swallows. His lips part as he breathes out, after, a small and sated sigh.

Washington says, “I remember your father being disappointed you didn’t choose law school. But you’re planning on going back?”

Angelica nods. “I’ve been thinking about it. A masters in philosophy is sort of a weird degree, so I might as well finish a Ph.D. But...”

Angelica can feel herself wrinkling her nose. She has a hard time masking disdain, sometimes, which is normally fine, but right now it burns in her chest. She wants to impress Washington so badly, for some reason, and she’s sure she must be coming across as immature. He’s an important man, but he’s not that important. She’s always thought he was handsome, but that’s never been a reason for her to lose her cool. She’s not the kind of girl who throws her achievements around and starts bragging. At least not at a party like this one.

So, instead of saying something about how much she loves what she studies, and how impressed her advisor was with her thesis, she says:

“Actually, I’ve been thinking about getting a job. I’m here to network.”

It’s not true, not by a long shot. She would rather do almost anything than network with this crowd; she’s not sure why she says it. But — it gets her Washington’s attention. Fully, for the first time. His focus is razor-sharp, intense and intoxicating. He looks stern, and there’s a ridiculous little furrow in his brow.

Angelica has always thrived off disapproval — and she’s thrilled to have broken his pleasant air of polite expectation, so she adds, “Maybe even a job in politics,” before smiling at him and finishing what’s left of her champagne.

She half-turns away from him, and — a waiter materializes. The service at these parties is always fucking unreal; you have to have gone to butlering school or spend a lot of time getting trained or something. Angelica prefers the ones where college students are serving, at least she can make uncomfortable commiserating eye contact with them. Angelica thinks it’s even the same waiter as before, but his tray is empty, this time. She hands him her empty glass, and Washington’s arm reaches across her to place his lowball glass down directly onto the tray.

“Two Old Fashioneds,” Washington says, and tacks on “And a glass of seltzer.”

The waiter nods, murmurs an “of course, sir,” and disappears behind the door to catering. Angelica’s angled after him, trying to decide whether it’s worth it to leave the conversation at that and find another way to entertain herself until she can finally justify an escape from this farce of a party.

Washington’s hand is on her elbow, though, suddenly, and she jumps. She can feel the metal of his wedding ring digging into the bone, a little, though he’s not holding onto her very hard. His palms are rough, and his calluses drag over her skin.

“My apologies,” he says, and lets go of her arm before she can even look back at him. She does, though, and he hasn’t stopped scrutinizing her, his dark brow still slightly furrowed.

“It’s not a problem,” Angelica says, and doesn’t let her smile show. “I hate Old Fashioneds, though. They’re my mother’s drink.”

Washington parts his lips to speak, and _hesitates_. “Ah,” he says.

Angelica can’t contain the corner of her smirk and has to duck her head to hide it. She wants to see how long Washington will let an awkward silence trail on.

Once she’s pulled herself together, she glances up at him. He’s still — the only words she can think of are comical, and his expression isn’t. _Flabbergasted. Befuddled_. But he’s staring, and he doesn’t know what to make of her.

“You’re welcome to mine,” she says. “If you’d like it. I’d prefer more champagne.”

Washington finally shuts his mouth. “Of course,” he says, and then his hand is back on her elbow. She raises her eyebrows, but he’s not looking at her face. She puts them back down. No point in making faces if he’s not going to notice.

He tugs at her elbow, a bit, and she lets him guide her over a few paces, and there it is. Exactly the little tucked-away nook she’s been looking for this whole time.

“Would you like to sit?” He gestures at two plush leather armchairs in the tiny book-lined alcove nearest them, angled towards each other and only separated by a side table that looks barely large enough to support more than two glasses.

“Alright,” Angelica says. Last she checked, John was busy recreating some undergraduate misadventures for an appreciative captive audience; he’ll be occupied for a while. And she can have another drink. They didn’t drive over, anyway, she’ll have him call a cab.

Angelica checks her watch on autopilot as she sits, and grimaces a little. She has no idea what John was thinking when he bought it for her; she wishes he’d given her the money and let her pick one out herself. But it’s not like he can buy her jewelry while she’s living with her parents, so she’s stuck with the orange monstrosity.

Washington, already settled in the other chair — the one furthest from view, she notes — is watching her.

“Everything alright?” he asks. “Did you have somewhere to be?”

"Not at all,” Angelica says, and smooths a smile over her face.

Washington pauses. His eyes are still on Angelica, on her arms and shoulders. Angelica shifts her arm across her lap and his gaze tracks her wrist.

He looks away, and says “So you’re here looking for a job?”

Angelica says “If I can find one.” She turns her wrist over in her lap and adjusts the strap of her watch. She hadn’t worn it until John came down to visit, had mostly left it on her dresser; the strap itches terribly. It almost feels like it’s giving her a rash, though she can’t take it off to check. Washington clears his throat.

“This doesn’t quite seem like your ‘scene’. Do hedge funds hire philosophy students now?”

Angelica laughs, tucking a loose curl behind one ear. “No, it’s — I _am_ looking for a job. I can’t keep hanging around my parents’ spare apartment forever. But I — you’re right, I don’t want to work in finance. I’m actually here with my boyfriend.”

Fuck. Why did she say that. Her heart is hammering.

She smiles to soften her next sentence, and adds “But this doesn’t seem to be your scene, either. I didn’t know you were on friendly terms with Wall Street.”

When she looks up at him, his brow is dark and serious again. He lifts a hand to gesture with it. “Work acquaintances of Martha’s.” And, after a beat: “My wife’s. She’s... consulted, with some of the fund managers in attendance here. I’m afraid she’s out of town this week, but didn’t want to miss out on...” He trails off, grimacing. “Truth be told, I’m in the doghouse this week and she made me... attend this event.” Turns his grimace into a smile and twinkles at her.

Angelica’s impressed. He’s good at that, at making her feel like he’s shared a real confidence with her, rather than just some half-true tidbit he made up on the spot. That’s a trick, too, and she knows it; he’s probably going to try and —

“Your father didn’t mention you were seeing anyone,” he says, not quite a question.

— get her to confess to something. Share a secret.

Angelica fidgets with her watch again, tries to slide a fingernail under the band. She knows he’s playing her; what she’s not sure of is why. What is he trying to get on her? Something on her father? Or maybe he’s just as bored as she is, and he’s just making conversation.

But the fact of the matter is, she wants to tell him. Her sisters know, of course, about John, but... Eliza’s throwing herself into her certification, and Peggy’s still in undergrad. They’re busy in a way she’s not, anymore. And they’re not perfect confidantes, in any case: Eliza thinks Angelica should just tell their parents about John, that their getting to know him will resolve whatever issues come up. Peggy just can’t believe that Angelica’s idea of an inappropriate boyfriend is a hedge fund manager whose first career move was to short on the housing bubble.

So Angelica says “I’ve been seeing John Church for almost two and a half years. My father wouldn’t approve.”

She shrugs. When she looks up, Washington's expression is deeply gratifying. He looks genuinely shocked.

“John —” he says. “John _Church_? He must be ten years older than you!”

Angelica smiles. It’s better than just shock; she’s _scandalized_ him. She’d forgotten what a stick-in-the-mud Washington can be.

“Eight,” she says. “And that’s part of why my father wouldn’t approve.” She’s trying as hard as she can to sound bored, like her heart isn’t hammering against her sternum. “But I like older men.”

He makes a little noise of surprise.

She can’t look at him, so she opens the buckle on her watch and slides the prong into the next-loosest hole. Tucks the tongue back under the strap and works a finger underneath, presses the edge of her nail against her pulse. She thinks she might actually be allergic to the strap on this damn thing.

Washington still hasn’t said anything. Angelica’s pretty sure she’s covering her blush — the lighting’s not great, and she’s got her head ducked down — but she would like her face to stop burning. It’s embarrassing, and it makes it hard for her to focus. That’s all. She sometimes has this problem speaking extemporaneously in class, too. It’ll pass, but she has to _let_ it.

She’s got her eyes still fixed on her wrist when feet appear in her range of vision. She looks up, and it’s the waiter; he’s got a tray with two Old Fashioneds and a glass of seltzer on it. Angelica feels her blush returning.

The waiter puts the three glasses on the tiny side table between Angelica’s chair and Washington’s. Suddenly, they feel much closer together. His legs are long, and he’s relaxed into the space; his ankles are nearly knocking against hers. She opens her mouth — she really, really does not want to drink her mom’s drink next to Washington on the heels of that confession — but Washington’s already speaking.

“My apologies, but you can return one of the drinks to the bar.”

Angelica’s a little annoyed. Last time he ordered for her it didn’t go too well, so she cuts in. “I’d like another glass of champagne. Or, actually, a Long Island Iced Tea, please.” What the hell, right. She needs a drink. Washington makes a vague, disapproving noise; she ignores it.

The waiter turns to leave, and Angelica waits until he’s gone before glaring at Washington.

“What the fuck was that?” she hisses. “You don’t need to order for me, and — what, do you not approve of my choice of beverage?”

“I don’t approve of cursing," Washington says, so paternal she could scream. He looks away from her, like he's lost interest, and stiffly adds, "Or drunkenness.” 

Angelica sucks in a breath to start lecturing him — she’s an adult, it’s a fucking party, she can do what she wants — when she notices that he’s not ignoring her; he's looking out at the rest of the party. He wasn't directing that comment at her.

She tries to follow his gaze — it’s hard, without visibly contorting herself, her chair’s angled away from the party and she hasn’t got a good view. But honestly, she doesn’t have to. John’s drunk, Washington disapproves. She gets it.

But she can’t help herself. She’s not a teenager sneaking a couple glasses to get her little sisters drunk for the first time.

“Well, then it’s a good thing that I don’t need your approval, Senator,” she hears herself say. She looks up at Washington, makes what feels like terribly defiant eye contact.

The effect is kind of ruined by the fact that she doesn’t have a drink to knock back, so she just glares for another beat until Washington laughs. Her heart flutters. She tightens the band on her watch; it’s too loose. It was dangling around her wrist like a bangle.

“I suppose you don’t, at that,” Washington says, his voice easy and relaxed, still with the shadow of his laugh in it. “And I apologize. No offense was intended.”

“None taken,” Angelica says. Her watchband feels too tight, like it’s cutting off her circulation. She loosens it again and longs for the waiter’s return.

“Is something wrong with your watch?” Washington asks, and Angelica twitches. She unfolds her fingers from where they’re curled around each other, and smooths her palms across the skirt of her dress.

"There's nothing wrong with it," Angelica says. "It's just not to my taste. It was a gift," she adds, feeling the urge to confess. She holds out her arm.

"Ah," Washington says. His lip pulls back in a sneer, Angelica thinks. Or maybe she's imagining it.

"I haven't worn it before tonight," Angelica adds, because she's not going to be able to tell anyone else about that. Angelica has had to at least pretend to like it. Eliza likes the watch, thinks it was a sweet gift. Peggy hates everything about John; Angelica admitting she doesn’t like his taste would be defeat, as if it meant something bigger than an aesthetic divergence. "I think I'm allergic to the band, or something."

Washington shifts back in his seat, though, as Angelica pulls her arm back. He's shaking back his sleeve. And... showing her his watch.

"Also a gift," Washington says, ruefully. "From my wife.”

It's nice. Expensive, for sure; Angelica doesn’t recognize the brand just from looking, but it’s probably Swiss. It’s masculine even though it’s soft rose gold, with a buttery strap.

It looks like her father's watch, but fancier — it's got a calendar _and_ the phase of the moon — and also looks like it actually runs. Her father's watch is an heirloom that runs ten minutes slow by the end of the day. This watch looks like it'll last another hundred years.

"It's lovely," Angelica says, because it is. He's still holding his arm out to her.

Washington shrugs, and shakes his sleeve back down over his wrist. folds his hands together over his stomach. He immediately unfolds them, and takes a sip of his seltzer. The drink he ordered is sitting untouched, on a napkin.

“I have a watch already. I just wanted to be able to say I’d worn this one once, but I do prefer my usual one. This one’s just going to sit in my closet.”

Angelica’s not quite sure what to say to this. “That’s a shame,” she hedges. She can’t stop fidgeting with the buckle of her watch. When is the waiter going to bring her drink?

“If it’s that uncomfortable, you should just take it off,” Washington says. His voice is so — he’s speaking softly, and Angelica’s ribcage feels tight. “I promise I won’t tell Mr. Church.”

“Is that the kind of advice you give all the ladies, Mr. Washington?” Angelica shoots back. She looks over at him and smiles, slowly; the muscle in his jaw clenches and he looks away from her.

Angelica can’t help herself, she loves this; she didn’t expect him to react. At least, not like that. She laughs, hard enough her head falls back a little — fuck, too loud, too noticeable, God. Maybe she doesn’t need a drink after all. She feels stupidly giddy, totally without cause. It’s not like he’s been flirting back.

“I think I will, though,” Angelica says, fumbling with the buckle. “If I can count on your discretion.”

She pulls the watch off and drops it into her tiny clutch. Squints at her wrist. It does look a little red, she thinks; she’ll put some lotion on it when the car drops her off at her apartment.

Angelica tucks the clutch back into her lap, crosses her ankles, and curls her hand over her now-bare wrist. She digs her thumb against her pulse point, squeezing her hand over the bones for some relief. At least it’s not itching anymore.

When she looks up at Washington, he’s staring at her wrist. Frowning. He looks away, and brightens — Angelica follows his gaze. Thank fucking Christ, the waiter’s back. She takes her drink with a sincere — probably over-sincere — expression of thanks, and knocks back about a third of it in one go.

She puts it down on a cocktail napkin and sighs. “Sorry,” she says.

“Don’t be,” Washington says, genially. “I understand the impulse. If you’ll excuse me —”

And he’s getting up. Angelica is — disappointed, is the most reserved way she can phrase it, even in the privacy of her own mind. She can’t ask him to stay, though, so she just smiles and says, “of course.”

He’s leaving the little nook, Old Fashioned in hand. Angelica’s left alone with his glass of seltzer. She can’t even bring herself to enjoy watching his back as he leaves.

Angelica sits for a moment. She’s — she enjoyed that. Talking to him. It’s a slap in the face that he just... left like that. She glances at her wrist, and — well, it’s rude, she can hear her mother telling her off for even considering it. But no one can see her. She pops the button of her clutch to check the time on her phone.

She sighs as she slides it away again. Probably another forty minutes before she can talk John into leaving. She taps her feet a bit, drums her fingernails on the metal studs at the front of the chair’s arm, leans her head against the plush leather and doesn’t worry about ruining her hair.

Angelica hates this about herself, how easily she gets bored. Maybe she could handle a party like this if she didn’t also feel the need to avoid every single other guest in attendance. She knows she can be... intense, but she needs more.

She sighs, and drinks the rest of Washington’s seltzer. It’s not like he’ll be coming back for it. She stares into space for what feels like an eternity and pulls her phone out again. No new alerts; she doesn’t bother unlocking the screen. It’s been two minutes.

Angelica can’t believe this. As she stares at the screen, the number ticks up. Three minutes. The screen goes dark by itself. She makes a noise of disgust and pushes it back into her purse, drumming her fingers again.

She gets up and starts looking through the books in this corner.

There’s nothing interesting, at first glance, just more leather-bound classics. Angelica’s pretty sure there are duplicates across the room. Disappointing but not surprising.

She leaves her clutch on the seat and wedges herself in behind one of the armchairs — hisses and steadies the little side table when the chair knocks into it, she doesn’t want to spill her drink — and gets on her tiptoes to investigate a promising looking book on a higher shelf. The leather looks worn and flaky, not the mass-produced butter-smooth gleam of the rest of the shelf.

She’s reaching up to pull it down when she sees movement in the corner of her eye. Fuck. She hopes it’s not the hostess, checking up on her again. Angelica lets her hand drop and turns and — it’s Washington.

“Oh,” she says, just for something to say.

"I saw my aide,” Washington explains, before stepping into the nook. “I just wanted to let him know he could leave for the night. Is everything alright?”

Angelica says “I was just —” and gestures at the shelf.

“Looking for something to read?” Washington says, amused. “I remember, you used to...”

He trails off. He’s scrutinizing her. Just as Angelica is about to say something, he shakes his head and draws in a breath.

“In any case. Do you need help getting back out?” He holds his hand out to her.

Angelica says, “No, I’ve got it.” She presses her back against the bookshelf and squeezes back out past the armchair. Suddenly, she’s standing very close to Washington. With a thrill, she realizes he’s looking at her hips. She is so profoundly grateful she’d managed to escape from behind the chair without tripping or making it scrape across the hardwood. That she maybe seemed graceful, or elegant.

He hasn’t taken his hand back, either; she wants to rest her fingertips in his wide palm. What the hell. She does, and he shifts his hand to help her step out.

He lets her steady her hand against his as she settles back into the chair; she only lets go because she has to move her bag as she sits.

Washington hesitates, standing in front of her, and she looks up at him. Her whole being wants to look up at him under her eyelashes. It’s a struggle to keep her gaze direct. He’s tall, and broad, and blocking her into her chair. Angelica straightens, a bit. Puts her shoulders back and concentrates on her posture. Her eyes burn, a little, trying not to blink.

“I drank your seltzer,” she says, finally. Washington’s gaze wanders from her face to the side table. The second he’s not making eye contact anymore, she blinks hard.

“So you did,” he says. Angelica waits for him to flag a waiter for a refill, or ask her why — not that she has a reason, really — but he just turns to sit back down, himself. He puts his Old Fashioned back down on the table with a soft clink. It’s still nearly full.

Angelica, always contrary, takes the opportunity to have some more of her drink. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see him watching her.

“Do you happen to have the time?” she asks. He checks his watch.

“Almost twenty past eleven.”

Angelica groans and slumps back into her chair. The time she’s spent with Washington stretches out, feels so much longer, but it’s only been a few minutes since the last time she checked.

She straightens, though, fixes her posture; she doesn’t want to appear petulant.

“I saw your... Mr. Church,” Washington says. “He’s engaged in a dramatic retelling of a misadventure involving antique pistols.”

Angelica snorts, and hides her smile in her glass. She hated that story, the first time she heard it, but John loves telling it.

“He would be,” Angelica says. “That’s one of his better anecdotes.” She wonders if her fondness is audible, the way she knows it is when she talks about her sisters. “At which point did you leave the retelling?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Washington says stiffly. “He was telling it with rather more enthusiasm than coherency.” He takes a sip of his drink. “I do hope he won’t be driving”

“I’ll call for a car when he’s ready to leave,” Angelica says, as mildly as she can.

“If you’re looking for a job in politics,” Washington says, out of the blue, “I’m sure your father could find something for you to do.”

“I don’t want to work for my father,” Angelica says, stung. She’s not, actually, looking for a job in politics, but if she were, does he really think that wouldn’t have occurred to her?

“Hm.” Washington says, and relaxes into his chair. His knees spread, a little, and Angelica lets herself notice how his quads and calves fill out his suit pants. She glances back up at his face.

“What is it you studied, again? Philosophy, I know, but more specifically.”

Angelica re-crosses her legs. Washington’s sprawled out in the armchair, resting his hand on his glass. He looks powerful, commanding. He fills the chair; his shoulders are touching the wings. Angelica always feels swallowed up in chairs like this, like she could curl up in them. She flexes her feet against her heels. Washington doesn’t look away from her face, but she’s suddenly positive he wants to.

“The ethics of privacy,” Angelica says.

Washington nods. “I imagine that’s an active field, given — well.” He gestures with the hand holding his drink, swirls the glass. The same hand gesture every man in his forties uses to indicate the internet.

“There’s a lot of work being published,” Angelica agrees.

“It’s fascinating,” Washington says. “The way culture has shifted, even in my lifetime. Of course, I’m looking at this as a politician, not as a private citizen. But I was born in ‘68, and the cultural upheaval that has taken place since then, the distrust for authority — it’s staggering to me. And of course digital technology has made everything much more permanent. I’m sure none of this is new to you,” he adds. “But it’s certainly recent history.”

Angelica is used to people — men, mostly, especially older men — expounding on her thesis topic as soon as she mentions it. She’s not really listening to him. Instead, she watches his face, his mouth, as he talks.

When he finishes, she nods. In a tone that’s intentionally, offensively bored, she says, “So you think politicians shouldn’t be held to a higher standard of behavior?” and offers him a tight smile, so he knows he should drop this.

“No,” he says. “I think individuals, both in and out of the public eye, should have a greater expectation of privacy,” and offers her his own tight smile. Lips pressed together. “A desire for privacy shouldn’t be considered synonymous with having something to hide.”

It’s a politician’s answer, and they both know it.

“Of course,” Angelica says, softly. “You’re a famously private man, Mr. Washington.” She maintains eye contact for another beat before clearing her throat and looking away.

They sit in silence. Angelica examines her manicure, before glancing at her wrist with a sigh.

“Do you have the time?” Angelica asks, playing up her disinterest.

Washington makes a noise which on a less dignified man she’d be forced to call a huff. “It’s twenty-five past.”

Angelica sighs. She toes her heels off, and tucks her feet up next to herself on the armchair. She leans away from Washington, puts her elbow on the chair’s arm and leans her chin on her hand. She knows she probably looks like a teenager again, but her feet hurt and this armchair is too huge and squashy to sit in like a responsible adult.

“When are you planning on leaving?” Washington asks. She hates that he sounds... amused. Indulgent.

“I was planning on waiting until midnight or one,” Angelica lies. She’s been planning her escape since the second she stepped into the gaudy foyer. “But I might leave earlier if John’s...”

“Indisposed,” Washington finishes for her.

She smiles fleetingly. “Exactly.”

Washington says, “Well, I’m afraid I’ll have to head out soon, but it would be a pity for you to leave without... I’m not sure my office is hiring, but if you need a job, I might be able to find you a position.”

Angelica was... not expecting that. Her whole brain is blank. She can feel herself staring as he slides a hand across his broad chest and into his inside pocket.

He fishes out a silver card case, and what looks like a fountain pen. Washington pulls a card out of the case, snaps it shut and tucks it away again. He uncaps the pen and writes something on the back of the card in heavy black ink.

“This is my direct line. I shouldn’t be terribly busy for the next few days, if you’d like to call and swing by. Meet the rest of my staff.”

He caps the pen, and puts it back in his pocket, as well. His hands are so big, the card pinched delicately by one corner with just the tips of his thumb and forefinger; his hands dwarf the tiny white rectangle.

Angelica takes hold of the opposite corner with her thumb and forefinger, as well. Before Washington can hand over the card, she says, “I’m not actually looking for a job. Not in politics.” She can feel herself smiling.

Washington lets go. “Well. You should still feel free to call and swing by, anytime.”

“Oh?” Angelica says, and raises her eyebrows. She’s still smiling as she tucks his card into her purse.

“Of course,” Washington says. He spreads his hand out over his chest, feeling his inside pocket from outside his suit. He grimaces, and goes to tuck his hand back inside his jacket when he hesitates.

“Do you mind?” he asks, two fingers on the button of his jacket.

“Go ahead,” Angelica says. “I don’t stand on formality,” and gestures at her shoes, where they’re lying on the floor.

“Thank you,” he says, and opens the front of his jacket to reach inside and rearrange his inside pocket. Angelica watches his arms work, imagines she can see his muscles through the fine wool. His biceps, of course, but also his forearms.

One time, the summer before her senior year of undergrad, Washington came to her parents’ senate cookout. He’d showed up without a tie, and with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Angelica had caught one look at him and spent the whole afternoon hiding in her room, claiming she was busy with thesis prep.

“Did I get something on my jacket?” Washington says, and twists his arm to try and get a look at the back of his sleeve. “Say what you will about this party, but the catering is excellent.”

Angelica can feel her face burning, and she flinches her gaze away. She’s normally much better about... staring. Or, at least, at not getting caught. She stares at her shoes. One of them is still upright, and the other’s fallen over, onto its side.

“I... was just wondering if you had the time. Again.” That’s the worst excuse anyone has ever come up with, probably. At least his watch is in the same general area she was looking at. She has a brief, terrified moment where she’s convinced he’ll ask for his card back, or revoke the offer — order — to call.

But Washington laughs. “Here,” he says.

She doesn’t look up. He touches her bare knee, where it’s poking out past the arm of the chair. Angelica can feel goosebumps prickling up over the skin. She tries to shift her legs back so he won’t see, but her shins are sticking to the leather.

“Give me your hand,” Washington says.

Angelica holds her arm out, a little confused. “Your other hand,” Washington says, his eyes crinkling as he smiles.

Angelica reaches her left arm across her body. And... Washington is settling his watch over her wrist, fingers deftly fastening the buckle against her pulse. She didn’t even see him pull it off.

“You clearly need it more than I do,” he says, smiling. “Keep it.”

Angelica stares. “There’s no way I can accept this,” she says, her eyes fixed on the face. She has every intention of accepting it. It’s not just Swiss, it’s _Vacheron_. This watch probably cost more than a year’s tuition. It could definitely cover first, last, and deposit on her own place, even in a nice part of D.C., if she sold it. Which she won’t. 

Washington waves his hand at her. “It looks better on you than it did on me,” he says, and smiles. “It’s eleven thirty. I should head out if I want to be home by midnight,” and stands. His thighs flex right in front of Angelica’s face as he pulls himself up. She blinks.

“Sir, I really can’t —” Angelica starts, trying to fumble with the buckle for politeness' sake. It’s fastened at the smallest circumference, on her wrist. There’s a bump in the tongue where the buckle had been fastened on Washington, and it makes her feel... delicate.

The strap is smooth and comfortable. The large face looks good on her arm. Angelica’s always liked men’s watches, and this one’s perfect.

Washington brushes her hand away from where she’s trying to unfasten the buckle, and wraps his hand around her palm. He slides his grip down to her wrist. His thumb overlaps his knuckles; Angelica bites down on a shiver.

“Really,” he says. “Take it. Someone should use it, and I’m not about to.” He rubs his thumb over her pulse, so lightly Angelica almost thinks she’s imagining it, before he lets go and steps back.

“It was a genuine pleasure to see you again, Miss Schuyler. I do hope you’ll give me a call.”

And with that, he’s gone.

Angelica sits and watches another five minutes tick by. Then she unfolds her legs, slips her shoes back on, and calls herself a cab.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Added a couple of tags relevant to the work as a whole! 
> 
> This chapter has got some fine-but-not-outstanding sex in which both parties are kinda drunk, if that's something you're sensitive to. 
> 
> Also, if you haven't seen it yet, an extremely generous fan [drew art](http://ackamarackuss.tumblr.com/post/139890777214/) for a scene from last chapter!

It still takes an hour and a half for Angelica to get home. Where the hell does Washington live that he can get home in half an hour, she wonders, before she remembers that he has an estate somewhere out here. Ugh.

It takes forever for the Uber to make it out to the suburbs, and then John had to say goodnight to everyone, twice. By the time she got him out to the car, it’d been waiting for almost 20 minutes. On a Friday night, too; the surge pricing is going to be ridiculous.

John _is_ drunk, not just tipsy. He always gets sloppily affectionate, fond; he has an arm over her shoulder and he’s leaning a little, to steady his walk.

Angelica gives the driver directions to the Palomar. John’s been in town since Thursday; he can afford to take a long weekend from his job in New York without anyone protesting. He’ll be leaving Sunday, when her parents get back into town, and so he can be back at work on Monday. It’s a neat little staycation. 

It’s nice, though. Washington’s watch feels heavy on her wrist, like an anchor, pulling her hand down. It’s not like John will notice it, drunk as he is — he’s not the most observant man at the best of times — but she hides it as best she can, anyway, under the sleeve of her light coat. 

She enjoys the ride, spends it looking out the window, with John pressed against her side,  rubbing his face against her neck. It’s late enough that I-95 is pretty much clear, this far out from the city, and Angelica has always loved the highway at night. 

The driver’s got the radio on, but Angelica can’t quite hear it. It sounds low and musical, not top 40 crap. She thinks it might be in Spanish, from the occasional snippets she picks up, but she’s not paying a lot of attention. 

Angelica sighs and holds John’s hand in hers as she watches the streetlights flicker by. His palm is clammy. He kisses her neck, a little clumsy and too wet.

She feels like she should turn her head away and lean against him, give him a better angle. Instead, she looks at him, turns her head so he can’t get at her neck anymore. She turns her knees in, too, angles her legs toward him and pulls her hips away, creating space between their bodies under the guise of creating intimacy. 

John presses his forehead against hers and smiles, nuzzles their noses together. His eyes are a little droopy with drink, and his face is — familiar. Angelica is struck by a pang of fondness so intense it makes her heart ache. She squeezes his hand, and looks out the window over his shoulder. 

###

Traffic slows as they get closer to the city. The driver gets off the highway, a little sooner than Angelica would have, if she were driving, but that’s fine. It’s a nice ride; lots to look at out the window. The approach to their destination is comforting in its familiarity. Angelica has always been a city girl; she finds the glow of lights at night soothing, prefers an electric hum to a starry sky. 

John’s asleep on her shoulder, his mouth open, nearly snoring, by the time they pull up to his hotel. Angelica shakes him awake, gently, and he snorts. She wipes at his mouth with her coat sleeve, and he gives her a fond look even through his half-asleep blink.

Angelica leans across John, to help him out of the car. He looks around, though, still sleep-muzzy; when he recognizes the hotel outside his whole face scrunches up into a frown.

“Hey,” he protests. Angelica waits for the rest of a sentence, her arm still stretched across John’s chest and her hand holding the car door cracked-open. Her coat sleeve is riding up, exposing her wrist; she’s painfully aware that if John just _looked_ he’d see...

John’s face does something mobile, delighted; he’s a very expressive drunk. He moves his hand up to cup her face. “Are you coming up with me?” he asks, sweet and pleased.

“No,” Angelica says, surprised into frankness. “You’re drunk,” she adds, to soften the flat denial. “And I hate not having a change of clothes in the morning.”

“Yeah,” John says. He still looks pleased, though. Dopey. “Can I stay with you, then? I’ve never been to your apartment.” 

All of Angelica’s usual excuses fall flat as she calls them up in her mind. Her parents won’t drop by unannounced, since they’re several hundred miles away; John being drunk is a perfectly good excuse to give to a doorman (this building doesn’t have a doorman, she reminds herself); her roommate’s cat doesn’t hate him, because: she doesn’t have a roommate who might let something slip, here, either.

“Sure,” she says, because he looks so hopeful. He beams, and kisses at her jaw, blows a hot breath into her ear, nips at her earlobe and slides his wet tongue against her neck.

His manner is so boyish, charming, that Angelica always forgets how old he is. He always felt like an equal, not like an older man. It never really bothered her when she met him in undergrad, or when she was in grad school, but it’s starting to feel a little strange that he still drinks like a frat boy, has clumsy frat boy moves, at his age. She’s sure other older men wouldn’t blow in her ear and consider it flirtation.

She gives the driver her address — it’s in the same neighborhood, there’s a reason he chose this hotel — before pulling the door shut. Angelica opens her clutch with one hand, and the watch John bought her almost falls out. She’d forgotten she’d stashed it in there. 

Angelica pulls her phone out, to check whether she can tip the Uber driver. She hopes so. She’s almost home.

###

A few minutes later, they’ve pulled up in front of her building. Angelica thanks the driver profusely as she maneuvers John out of the car; he grunts an acknowledgement and pulls away from the curb as soon as she’s shut the back door. 

John’s leaning on her and she’s steadying him, leaning against his elbow; she only has one hand free. She manages to rate the driver on her phone, and send him a tip, before closing the app and digging her keys out of her purse. Nothing falls out. 

Angelica isn’t that drunk, really — she only had two drinks, and she didn’t even finish one of them — but she is tipsy enough to be pleased with her manual dexterity when she manages to juggle her purse and its contents one handed as she lets herself into the building. 

John’s awake now, and full of single-minded focus. He’s sliding his hand up and down her back, trying to feel the edges of her dress through her coat. Angelica calls the elevator, pulls him inside and sends it up to her floor. 

John presses against her, bends down to kiss her. She turns her face up, licks into his mouth even though he still tastes a little beer-sour. Sure, she thinks, vaguely. Sure.

Angelica’s wearing a light trench coat over her dress; it has buttons, not a zipper, huge decorative things that John’s clumsy fingers still can’t open. The elevator dings as it takes them up past the first floor, and John curses into her mouth, laughs a little as he pulls back to try and get her coat open.

Angelica pulls him back in and opens it herself, opening all the buttons down her chest and leaving her belt tied. The elevator dings for the second floor. She can hear her heart pounding. The only other noise is John’s hoarse breathing against her neck, his hands scrabbling over the fabric of her dress as they’re pressed into her hips. 

The elevator dings for the third floor. John presses sloppy kisses against her neck, her collarbone, pushes the strap of her dress aside to dig his teeth into the bone.

He rests his teeth against glances up at her to check, the way he does every time, no matter how many times she tells him she likes it. 

Angelica laughs, fond and delighted, and lifts her hand up to cup his skull. She nods, says “yeah,” and he digs his teeth in. 

He never really bites hard enough, but he puts his lips against her skin and sucks, slow and steady. Angelica cards her fingers through his hair and sighs. She leans her head back against the elevator’s wall. 

The bell dings for the fourth floor. Angelica shuts her eyes.

John’s face is pressed up against her throat, one hand stretching her coat open to press against her ribs, the other on her thigh, restlessly pushing her skirt up and then back down. She tugs at his hair a little, listens to his pleased hum. 

She’s got her other arm hanging by her side, and curls her fingers up to try and... she can’t press them against her pulse, but the flex of her wrist against the watchband is enough for her to let out a little moan, almost despite herself. 

The elevator shudders to a halt. It dings twice as the door opens. Angelica opens her eyes. 

John stumbles away from her, and smiles. She’s embarrassed, suddenly, and brushes past him out of the elevator; he follows, laughing, telling her to slow down. His voice is too loud in the carpeted hallway.

Angelica pulls her keys back out of her coat pocket, lets them into her apartment; John’s leaning against her back, nosing at her hair and her ear, generally making a nuisance of himself.

She finally gets the door open and kicks her shoes off, drops her purse and keys by the door. She takes her earrings out, too, drops them in the ashtray where she keeps her keys. She stares at the wristwatch. She should really take that off, she thinks. It’s one in the morning. She watches the minute hand tick.

Then she undoes the belt on her coat and strips it off. John just has his suit on, didn’t need another layer. It’s September; the nights are still warm, down here in D.C. 

He’s looking around, not that there’s anything much to see; by the time Angelica’s ready to drag him to the bedroom he’s  tapping his nails against the kitchen countertop. She pops the button on his suit jacket, tugs at his tie. He smiles.

They make it to the bedroom, Angelica tugging John along. She loosens his tie once she gets him standing in her bedroom, and pulls it over his head as he shrugs his suit jacket off onto her floor. He keeps trying to get at her face, leave sloppy wet marks; Angelica’s an old pro at dodging, though. He always does this when they’re drunk and she hates it. 

“I don’t have condoms here,” she says, halfway through unbuttoning his shirt. He laughs. Angelica slides her hand down to the fly of his suit pants, gropes a little; he’s resolutely half-hard. She smiles up at him. 

“Whiskey dick’s a hell of a thing,” he says, rueful but not embarrassed. This has happened before. 

Angelica doesn’t mind it, really; it’s not like he uses it as an excuse not to get her off, or anything. He’s very committed to amending the orgasm gap. Maybe too committed. 

But sometimes this is a nice change from their usual sex life, which more often than not consists of quick booty calls when their schedules overlap.

“I figured,” she says, which is true. “Just letting you know.” 

“Well,” John says, low, and puts his hand over hers, presses her palm against his cock until she feels it twitch, sluggishly, against her hand. 

She pulls her hand free, and finishes undoing his shirt. Once she’s done, she rubs her hands against his chest, his abs. John spends a lot of time at the gym. 

She shoves at him, teasingly. He’s still dizzy drunk, though, and he falls back onto her unmade bed, laughing, before scooting up the bed on his elbows. 

“Shoes,” Angelica says, sternly, because he’s about to put his shoes in her bed and that’s gross, but he just laughs and slumps down, collapses onto the bed. 

“You should have reminded me earlier,” he groans, and waggles his feet. He heaves an enormous sigh, like he’s about to pull himself up. Angelica just pulls his shoes off, drops them on the floor. She feels like she’s been thrumming all evening and she doesn’t have the patience to wait for John to undress himself.

She climbs up over him, pulls his shirttails out of his slacks and presses her hands down over his abs, again. She ducks down to kiss him and he groans low in his throat when he looks up at her. His eyes are glassy, dazed, worshipful.

Angelica rucks her skirt up around her thighs and straddles his hips, grinds down against him until he makes a little pained noise and pushes her off his dick.

“What can I do?” John says, his damp palms spread out against her thighs. “How do you want me?” 

Angelica looks down at him. Her hands are braced on the mattress on either side of his head. He’s panting, flushed, looks earnest. His hair is rumpled, and she shifts her balance onto one hand, touches his temple. He hasn’t started going grey, yet. She presses her palm against his face.

He slides his hands up her inner thighs, digs his thumbs against the tendon where her legs are spread.

“I want you to take your shirt off,” Angelica says, and sits back on her heels. She has to squirm, a little, because she ends up sitting on her dress, but she manages to bunch the skirt up in her hands and pull it up over her head. 

It’s not very dignified. Her hair gets caught, and then one of her arms, but finally she emerges triumphant in her underwear. She hopes she didn’t rip any seams. She throws it across the room, in the general direction of her hamper.

John’s staring up at her, still up on an elbow with his shirt unbuttoned. 

“Come on,” Angelica says. “Shirt off.” 

He pulls his shirt off, drops it next to the bed. 

“What do you want?” John asks, again. He smiles, taps his fingers against her thigh. “My mouth?” 

Angelica looks away, hides her irritation by rolling onto her side. 

She’s never been the kind of girl who fakes it; she’s perfectly capable of telling her partners what she wants in bed. She likes getting eaten out, even, it’s not like she just hates that point-blank.

But she hates the way men get competitive about this, like oral sex is more about their prowess than it is about her enjoyment, and John’s no exception. She’s yet to find a man who is. And, more specifically, John isn’t as good as he thinks he is. He normally takes direction very well, but not on this; it’s a point of pride or something. 

She hates arguing with John when he’s drunk, or — not arguing, but injuring his pride. He gets sulky and pouty, and it’s just not worth it. 

“Your hands,” Angelica says. 

“Are you sure?” John asks her, in what he probably imagines to be a coy tone. It doesn’t quite work on him, or maybe she’s just irritated enough not to find it charming, right now.

“Yes,” Angelica says firmly, and glances down at John’s long, slim-fingered hands, blocky fingernails. She reaches down to press her hand over his, and rubs at the scar on his knuckle where he cut himself trying to make her dinner, back when they’d just started dating. 

She moves his palm up her thigh. His hands are soft, palms still a little sweaty even though he wiped them off on her sheets. She can’t help but compare them to Washington’s, at the party, think about his broad palms and the calluses — she lets out a little noise, involuntary, at the thought of those calluses scratching against her thighs, pressing up —

Angelica has to bite at her lips to stifle a moan. 

John is smiling. He gets so pleased with himself when he gets her to react. He rubs a hand over her side, her hip, and slides a thumb into panties to tug them past her hipbone. She kicks them off, impatient, and pulls his hand down. 

He tries to press at her clit, but he’s too drunk for manual stimulation, so she doesn’t let him. Angelica curls his pinkie and ring fingers down, leaves two — she can feel how wet she is, she knows how much she can take — and pushes John’s fingers into herself. 

It’s not a great angle, but John knows what he’s doing — he does know what she likes, they’ve done this before — and he can take over. 

She sighs. He feels good, his fingers pressing deeper than she can reach, but it’s not — it doesn’t feel like what she wanted. She’s on her side, so she hooks a leg up, rests her thigh against John’s hip, tries to grind down further, but John’s just teasing at her, rubbing inside and trying to curl his hand so his thumb can get at her clit. 

“More,” Angelica says, frustrated. 

“How?” John asks her, giving up on her clit and sliding his fingers all the way out before fucking them back into her. “Like that?” 

Angelica groans. “Yeah,” she says, shuts her eyes and squirms. “Again.” 

It’s not enough, though; she can tell already that it won’t be enough. She wants to get off. Both because she wants it and because John won’t stop until she does, or until she fakes it — he gets like that when he’s drunk, and she _wants_ to feel... 

She doesn’t know what she wants, she doesn’t know why this isn’t doing much for her. Normally she loves this, his fingers, he’s twisting them as he fucks them into her, making little wet noises on every thrust. And she’s so wet, and so worked up from earlier, just from talking to —

Washington’s face appears against her eyelids, his stern expression, and _God_ , she wonders if he knew, if he could tell how much she — he’d disapprove, of course, but if she’d spread her legs in that chair at the party, pulled her skirt up and let him see how wet her panties were getting...

Angelica can hear her own breath. She’s starting to pant a little, her breathing gone ragged; she can feel sweat beading up at her hairline.

“More,” she says. “Give me another.” 

John stops moving his hand and she almost screams in frustration. She slits her eyes open, glares at him narrow-eyed. “Come _on_ ,” she gets out.

“Are you sure?” John asks, his face turned up in concern. As if his fingers aren’t about as slender as her own, as if she hasn’t taken way more than that — his dick, for one thing, Christ — but also with other partners, before they got together, and told him about it. Sometimes he’s so fucking _conscientious_ —

“Yes,” Angelica bites out. She shuts her head again. “Another finger, maybe two, I can take it —”

She hates having to beg for this, why can’t he just take her at her word, but then — _ah_ , perfect, a third finger pressing in all tentative, not much of a stretch but she can _feel_ it now, and Angelica can’t stop thinking about —

She shuts her eyes. John’s working his fingers into her slowly, an inch at a time and then working them back, and she thinks about Washington, touching her like this. Tentatively. His fingers were so thick, twice as thick as John’s, probably, and long; he’s so —

Angelica turns her face into the pillow and tries to work her hips down, force John’s hand to go a little harder. 

She can’t decide if Washington would stay cool and collected, totally together, press a finger into her and not care who saw, or if he’d — the man can’t even hear the word _fuck_ without getting overwhelmed with moral fucking outrage, God, if he doesn’t approve of public drunkenness, what would he have done if she —

Angelica rolls her hips, squeezes her eyes shut even harder. She’s pretty sure she lets out a whimper, but she doesn’t care, she wants — she pictures Washington’s disapproving frown as she fumbles her own hand between her legs. (John lets out a little noise of protest, as if touching her there was his job; she ignores it). 

She grinds her wrist, the watchband, against her pubic bone as her fingers slip over her clit — too wet to get good friction, but it’s enough to push her over the edge, the additional sensation and the thought of Washington’s eyes on her, wearing his fucking fifty thousand dollar watch in bed with her boyfriend, fuck, _fuck_ , it’s — 

Angelica gasps, and shudders a little, clenching hard around his fingers, her body curling forward hard enough that her forehead collides hard with John’s shoulder. She curses as he tries to carefully pull his fingers out of her. She wasn’t done, had just hit a first crest, but as John’s wiping his fingers off on her sheets she feels it slip away. 

She rolls onto her back, puts her hands over her face and tries to stamp down on her frustration, her irritation. It’s never enough. Why is it never enough? She needs...

John’s trying to put his arms over her, to hold her close to him, and she wants to scream. 

One measly drunk orgasm she mostly had to give herself isn’t enough to merit this level of postcoital smugness, she wants to snap at him. But it’s not even John she’s mad at. She doesn’t know why she does this to herself, she thinks, suddenly exhausted as John mumbles incoherent pillowtalk into her hair.

Maybe she can get her vibrator out after John falls asleep, she thinks, vaguely, but she can’t keep herself awake. 

###

Angelica wakes up alone, with all her blankets kicked onto the floor, naked except for her bra. 

Light is streaming in through the window and she’s not even hungover. 

She sighs, stretches big, straining to reach the corners of her headboard, arches her feet until her calves ache. She twists her back until she hears a couple tiny cracks, groans and flops onto her stomach before thumbing her bra open and flinging it across the room.

This is nice. 

She’s dozing, leaving her eyes half shut and relishing Saturday morning laziness, when she hears a clatter from the kitchen and tenses up all over. 

Oh. John didn’t leave, then. She’s not sure why she expected he would have. She’d almost forgotten he was ever here, that’s all.

Angelica groans, and heaves herself out of bed. She almost kills herself tripping over John’s shoes, still lying discarded by the side of her bed. Hell. 

She’s pulling on her robe as she heads to the kitchen, makes a detour to the table by the door to check her phone, still sitting in her clutch from the party. 

The battery’s at 7%, which is just what Angelica deserves for forgetting to plug it in when she got home. She fumbles for the cord, so it’ll charge while she deals with whatever John’s doing in her kitchen. While she’s groping around trying to get at the fucking awful plug placement, the contents of her purse spill out and off the table. 

She’s got her phone in her hand, and she manages to catch the orange wristwatch — or, well, gets it to land on her bare foot — but Washington’s card lands on the floor with a soft _tack_. 

Angelica curses and gets down on her knees to fish the charger out from where it slipped behind the table; picks up the pocketwatch and her purse in the process and shoves them both into the table’s junk drawer. 

She plugs her phone in and dumps it on top of the table, too — no new alerts overnight, just some emails from college friends and a text from Burr asking when she’ll be back in the city, but nothing like what she was hoping for. Which, honestly, was Peggy or Eliza telling her that their parents were heading home early, so she’d have an excuse to... what? To kick John out? 

Angelica shakes her head and sighs as she pushes herself up into a squat, one hand steadied on the table’s edge. 

She slides her fingernails under Washington’s card — it’s thick, heavy paper, with embossed writing. The number he wrote on the back hasn’t bled through. 

Angelica stands up, still looking at the card; she’s not quite sure what to do with it. She’s suddenly conscious that she slept in Washington’s watch — her watch, now, but still — and that she’s. Well. That John’s still here, and that he’s sober, now, that he’ll notice what she’s wearing. 

She opens the junk drawer again, pulls the Ferragamo out, drops it on the tabletop next to her phone and her ashtray full of discarded earrings — she should really sort those out, probably soon —  and undoes the wristwatch, drops it into the drawer next to Washington’s card. She pulls a plastic bag full of matches and rubber bands on top of it for good measure before pushing the drawer shut. 

She’s not totally sure why she’s hiding the card — the watch, sure, but there’s nothing strange about a card, even with his number on the back. John knows she’s looking for work. He’d probably even be _proud_ of her for finding something. 

Angelica huffs. She pulls herself upright, spreads her palm out on the cool smooth surface of the table and stares at her hand, her manicured fingers. Her wrist feels strange without the watch on.

###

In the kitchen, John is cheerfully cursing at her stove. She has no idea what he could possibly have tried to pull together for breakfast. Her fridge is barren.

“Hey, handsome,” she says, bumping her hip against his. He’s wearing his slacks, still, from last night, and he’s shirtless under one of the aprons Eliza gave her when she moved in. 

“Hi,” John says, smiling at her. She loves his crow’s feet. He tips his face towards her for a kiss and she leans in to give him one. 

They’re nearly of a height when she’s barefoot, but he doesn’t care that she’s taller in heels. That used to be something Angelica cared about, something she worried about. Maybe she’s just gotten used to it not being an issue, with John; probably she’d have to start caring again if she got back into the dating game. 

“What are you making?” 

“I was trying to make you breakfast in bed,” John says, tone mock-complaining. “But you ruined that plan, missy.”

He pokes her nose with one finger, and she pastes a smile on her face. “That was sweet of you,” she says, which is true, even if she doesn’t... really appreciate it, right now. 

“All you had in your fridge was some eggs and half a gallon of milk past its sell-by date,” John says. “And some kind of wilted vegetables? They seemed fine so I just...” 

He gestures at the pan. He’s made scrambled eggs the way she likes them. They look very fluffy. And there’s... green stuff. Probably the vegetables.

“You should let me take you grocery shopping. What have you even been eating? I know you have that blender I got you, you should make yourself more smoothies.”

He’s saying something about organic microgreens and farmer’s markets, but Angelica just fumbles the coffeemaker on. She’s not caffeinated enough to deal with this. 

“Mostly I go out to eat,” Angelica says, vaguely, which is true. She likes restaurants, doesn’t mind eating out by herself. 

She slumps into a chair at her tiny kitchen table, rubs her hands over her face, makes vague noises of agreement at John. 

“Anyway,” he says as he slides half of the breakfast omelette onto her plate and puts the pan in the sink, “I was thinking. It’s not like you have a job keeping you here, and I miss having you around. You should come up to New York, maybe try to find work there.”

“My parents don’t have a free apartment in the city,” Angelica says, trying to be patient. They’ve talked about this before. “And I can’t stay with my sisters, I’d have to stay with friends, and I don’t want to impose.” 

“You could stay with me,” John says, fake casual. “I mean, you’ve been to my place, it’s nice, right?” 

Angelica takes the opportunity to cut herself a bite with the side of her fork. She chews and swallows.

“Yes,” she says, eventually. “It’s nice.”

John beams. He’s got a great smile. His teeth are very white; they make him look trustworthy. 

“I’ll think about it,” Angelica concedes. She thinks about the text she got from Burr, asking her to come up to the city, and amends that concession to a more definite “I’ll let you know when works for me.”

It probably won’t be next week, because her parents will get fussy if she takes two consecutive weekends to avoid them, but she’ll make it happen soon. She’ll have to find out if whatever’s going on with Burr is urgent or if he’s just calling in a favor.

She missed the city. It’ll be good to get away from D.C.; the culture here is so different. Angelica thinks about Washington’s card sitting in her junk drawer, the direct line she could call —

Angelica finishes her omelette, listens to John’s bright chatter about the indoor farmer’s market he’s been frequenting, that he wants to take her to buy seasonal greens, something about fermentation processes — he’s started experimenting with brewing his own beer, apparently, in addition to making whiskey in his bathtub.

She scrapes her fork across the plate when she’s done, chugs the rest of her coffee, and taps her nails against the table top. John breaks off the story about the time he exploded his still — she’s heard it before, but he likes telling it — and looks at her, waits for her to speak. He really is... very attentive. In some ways, if not in others. 

Angelica wipes her mouth with the square of paper towel John handed her to use as a napkin. 

“That’s all well and good,” she says. “But you’re here right now, and we don’t have anywhere to be.”

“That’s true,” John says, teasing.

She raises her eyebrows. “We have a whole day before you have to leave. And there’s a corner store on the next block that sells condoms,” she says. “If you hurry, I won’t get started without you.” 

John laughs, and leans his shoulder against hers before he ducks into her space to kiss her on the mouth. 

“I,” he says huskily, “will be right back.” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yikes everyone, sorry, i got really hung up on this chapter. way more was supposed to happen in it, but it's almost 5k words as is and it would have ballooned hopelessly out of control. 
> 
> HOPEFULLY the next one will be done quicker and we will finally get to MEET MORE CHARACTERS!! 
> 
> Thank you so much to [dactylospora](http://archiveofourown.org/users/dactylospora) for beta, & to [iaintinapatientphase](http://archiveofourown.org/users/iaintinapatientphase) for looking it over & encouraging me to post.

Angelica takes John to his train at four on Sunday afternoon, with no small feeling of relief. Thirty-six hours holed up in apartment with one other person would grate on her even if the other person was St. Teresa.

No, scratch that, Angelica thinks, on the Red Line home from Union Station; she’s only coming to mind as an example because John told her a rambling story over lunch about how much St. Teresa hated the poor.

Angelica wasn’t really clear whether the story was meant to justify his own class issues or whether it had been meant to prove how enlightened he was. Either way, she’d fact-checked it out of disbelief and it was true; time to scratch that simile from her mental repertoire.

She wants to shut her eyes and rest her head against the glass, but that’s unsanitary and her ride’s not actually long enough to relax. She stares out the window, instead.

###

The first thing Angelica does when she gets off her at her stop is drop into her local liquor store. She gets a bottle of pizza wine, her favorite $30 bottle of sweet German Riesling. It’s her go-to guilty pleasure comfort wine; she couldn’t have had it out in her apartment while John was there.

The first thing she does when she gets home, before she takes off her coat or puts her keys away or anything, is to uncork it, pour some in one of the oversized red wine glasses that were in the apartment when she moved in, and leave it to breathe.

She backtracks to the front door and hangs up her coat. She drops her key on the side table and, after a considering moment, opens her junk drawer.

It’s been sitting undisturbed since breakfast on Saturday. She fishes out the wristwatch, fastens it again; it looks good, the face framed between the bones of her wrist.

She looked up the details on this watch when John was napping between rounds, on her phone: it’s water resistant, but she shouldn’t take it diving; the band isn’t leather, it’s alligator. It also cost — bare minimum — sixty, sixty-five grand, but who’s counting. Certainly not Washington, if he can give that up on a whim.

Angelica pulls her earrings out, drops them in her ashtray — she really needs to clean that out, damn — hangs up her coat, pulls her bra out from under her camisole, drapes her dress over the back of a chair in the living room so she remembers to have it pressed, all the other little things she does after a long day. Her wine is in the kitchen; she grabs it and drains the glass before refilling it to an inch below the rim.

She’s standing in her living room in tights, underwear, and an undershirt. And the wristwatch. Her bra is sprawling spread-eagled over one of her couch cushions; her shoes are next to the door.  She feels confident, almost powerful.

Her apartment is blessedly, blissfully silent. Angelica shuts her eyes, just for a moment, and relaxes into it. She spreads out her toes in her tights. There’s a run at the tip of the toe; last time she wore them, Peggy’d been the only one with nail polish in her purse, so it’s mended in neon turquoise.

Angelica has another sip of wine before clinking the glass down and rolling down her stockings. They left a seam on her stomach, where the elastic pinched at the top, and Angelica rubs at the skin, lifts up her camisole to feel at the indentation, and the leftover dug-in marks from wearing the lacy too-small bra she’d put on for John. She peels the camisole off, too, and flings it in the general direction of her bra.

She has another sip of wine, surveying her apartment. It looks good, like she never had guests. The blender’s still out on the kitchen counter, and her fridge is now stocked, but other than that she can almost pretend.

Her eye catches on a flash of color by the door, and she heads back over to the table there.

The ugly orange watch John bought her is still sitting out on the counter. Angelica jerks the junk drawer open to push it in, bury it under lighters she never uses and rubber bands so old they’ve lost their stretch, where she doesn’t have to see it anymore.

She pulls Washington’s card out from under a pile of grubby Ziploc bags filled with twine, subway tokens, and pre-European-Union small change and stares at it for a second. Angelica holds the card between two fingers, tapping it against the buckle of Washington’s wristwatch, as she shoves the watch John bought her away, and collects her wineglass before padding back to her bedroom.

###

The wineglass goes on a coaster on her bedside table. The card gets tucked under one of the rubbery feet of her crappy Ikea desk lamp, the only furnishing she’s held onto from her undergrad years. Her roommate had dropped out of the program, moved back home and told Angelica to keep her things. Angelica ended up getting her former roommate’s fellowship; the lamp is lucky.

She makes sure enough of the card is sticking out that she’ll be able to retrieve it easily if she has to, and then stretches out in her bed. John stripped and turned down the bed before he left, so the sheets are cool and fresh against her bare skin.

She reaches over, balances the wineglass against her sternum and cranes her neck up to drink lying down. It’s a white, it won’t stain too badly if she spills a little.

Finally, Angelica rolls over onto her stomach, puts the wineglass back down on its fancy coaster, and digs open the drawer of her bedside table, rescues her neglected vibrator.

She’s so glad John’s gone.

Her vibrator’s half-charged, probably, so she plugs it in, leaning half out of her bed with her fingertips braced on the floor, contorted, to plug the charger into the wall between the bed and bedside table. She connects the magnetic charger head to the base of the toy, sets it onto her nightstand to charge, and sits back up.

She drinks some more of her wine. She’s going to have to refill the glass soon. She’s not touching Washington’s card, but she keeps looking at it, out of the corner of her eye, thinking about how she could call him. If she wanted, she could call him right now. She turns the card over, tucks it back underneath her desk lamp with Washington’s private number face-up, so she can see his heavy dark handwriting.

Angelica pulls on her robe and goes to refill her wineglass. If she grabs her phone while she’s out of her room to deposit it next to Washington’s card, well. That’s got nothing to do with anything.

###

Her vibrator’s charged, when Angelica gets back. She tests it against her fingernail, lets the buzz tickle over her fingertip and against her palm before trailing it up her arm. She pulls her robe off, presses the vibrations against the pulse on her wrist, over the thin skin on her inner arm until goosebumps come up and she has to shiver. She flicks the toy off.

Angelica pulls it away from the charger and drops it on her pillow, coils the wire around her desk lamp so the end won’t disappear under her bed the next time she needs it. Her underwear gets left on the floor by the bed, next to her robe; she likes it when her room looks a little messy, silk and lace all over the floor. Like she’s had a girl over, but the girl is her.

She’s got a bottle of wine to kill, her vibrator’s charged, her apartment’s empty, and she has nowhere to be.

Angelica turns her vibrator back on and shuts her eyes.

###

When she opens her eyes again, an eternity later, her mouth is sore, bitten-red, and the sheets are sweaty. Probably not quite _ruined_ , but she should probably change them. She’s not going to, but she should.

Angelica’s limbs feel heavy. She feels sticky all over, with sweat, and slick down her thighs; she made a mess, teased and worked herself up, got herself off half a dozen times and then managed to curl her wrist, press the toy inside her against her g-spot until she fell apart completely. The toy’s lying next to her — she wipes it off on the sheets, dumps it on her bedside table and heaves in a deep breath. She’ll clean it in the morning.

She checks her watch. It’s well past seven; too late to start getting ready to go out, at least on a Sunday, but early enough that Angelica doesn’t feel she can just roll over and pass out. Her stomach gurgles a little, undignified.

She sighs and presses a pillow, the cool side, against her sweaty face before swinging her legs over the side of her bed and pulling her underwear and robe back on. She’s pretty sure she’s got leftover noodles in the fridge.

###

Five minutes later, Angelica’s back in bed. She gave up on her wineglass and just brought the rest of the bottle back with her, as well as a box of Chinese takeout that’s still half-full of cold noodles. She twists them around her fork, chases them with a mouthful of sweet wine.

Her phone buzzes; it’s a text from John. She grabs her phone one-handed, unlocks the screen while chewing on another bite. He’s home, apparently. Makes sense, the train ride’s only three hours — longer than flying, but more convenient, especially with the wait times at airports these days. His subway ride home from Penn Station just takes ages; his train got in almost an hour ago. Maybe he got food? 

She texts him back — _Good. xo A_ — and then, while she’s got her phone out, checks her conversation with Burr.

Burr  
Come up to the city when you get the chance,  
your sisters miss you.

Angelica  
fuck off  
✓ Read 10:21  
on Saturday

She sighs. She would have just left things at that, but the mere fact of Burr being a jackass doesn’t mean there’s nothing there.

Angelica  
What’s up?

Burr texts her back immediately. Loser.

Burr  
Finally texting me back now that your boyfriend’s out of town?

Angelica  
You’re such a stalker.

Burr  
He checked in at Penn Station on Foursquare an hour ago.

And posted a Facebook status.

Angelica  
Why did you even friend him?

Burr  
I network.

Angelica  
Whatever, weirdo.

What’s up? I haven’t heard anything from  
Peggy or Eliza.

Burr  
It’s not urgent. There’s someone I want you to meet.

Angelica  
What’s that supposed to mean?

Burr  
Someone from school. You’d like him. 

Before you ask, I’m not matchmaking.

 

Angelica snorts (and, admittedly, deletes a half-written text). 

He’s still typing, so she takes the opportunity to send Peggy and Eliza a few emoji hearts. Just because they’re on her mind. Her phone buzzes again, twice in quick succession, and she flips back to her conversation with Burr.

 

Burr  
Come up next weekend. Or whenever will cause the least  
suspicion about your Secret Boyfriend. Preferably when  
your parents are back in D.C.

At least your mom. 

Angelica  
Speaking of matchmaking?

Burr  
Exactly. She keeps asking when I’m going to settle down.

The fact that both of us are ‘single’ came up. At length.

She got out our junior prom photos in front of Peggy  
and complimented me on my bow tie. 

You owe me. 

Angelica  
It’s been almost ten years, Burr, you can’t keep  
milking that forever.

Fine. Who’s this guy you want me to meet?

Burr  
I don’t want to spoil the surprise.

Angelica  
Ugh. 

I’ve been planning to come up soon anyway. I  
miss Peg & Betsey.

And school. I should say hi to the faculty.

Burr  
I don’t care. Just keep me updated on your itinerary.

Angelica  
Is this some sort of plot to get me to come back  
to grad school?

Because I’m not going to.  
✓ Read 20:08  
on Sunday

Angelica huffs. Getting the last word in with Burr is never as enjoyable as it should be. He’s great at letting silence speak for itself — right now, it’s saying something along the lines of “I’m sure you’re very fulfilled by your unfruitful job hunt and solitary existence.” 

His silences have gotten significantly more verbose since elementary school.

She picks a date in the second week of October and books a one-way train ticket to the city from her phone — she’s not sure when she’s planning on going back; it depends on when or if she manages to schedule interviews. She takes a screenshot and texts it to Burr. 

✓ Read 20:13  
on Sunday

Angelica sighs. She texts the screenshot to John, too (reponse: _Great! Looking forward to it._ ), and to Peggy & Eliza (responses: the thumbs up emoji and _!!!_ , respectively). She puts her phone back on the nightstand, next to her vibrator and Washington’s card. She picks up what’s left of her bottle of wine, swirls it around to get a sense of how much is left inside. 

It’s mostly empty; she picks at what’s left of her noodles. She had a little too much to drink on an empty stomach. She doesn’t feel drunk, but she’s got a headrush going. She’s just a little dizzy when she tries to stand up to throw out the empty takeout box. She catches herself with a forearm braced against the wall and feels a giggle bubble up. 

The takeout box goes on her bedside counter for now, to be dealt with tomorrow, along with all the other things she’s left there to deal with later. 

Angelica, looking at the cluttered surface, feels a sudden flash of — something, some emotion she can’t quite identify. She’s not this girl, whoever this girl is, whoever people would think this girl is, happy home alone with wine and leftover takeout and a sex toy, contented by the presence of some guy’s number even though she doesn’t have the nerve to call. That’s not who she is.

She snatches up Washington’s card, knocks her desk lamp askew in clumsy haste, and slumps back onto the bed. The card is creamy, heavy paper; she runs the sharp corner of it down her throat, lightly, taps it against her sternum for no reason at all except to feel the prickle as the card keeps its shape, corners still sharp. 

The front of the card is lovely, expensive cardstock, Washington’s name and title and phone number, email address on it. Angelica doesn’t know enough about business cards to know how this one compares to most, but she knows enough about expensive things to know it must at least rank. 

It’s the back of the card that interests her, Washington’s squat round handwriting, steady and stable. He writes his his eights as two separate circles, crosses his zeroes; his fours are written in two strokes, joined at the tip with a long cross-bar. It’s a surveyor’s hand: precise, spare, almost fussy in its neatness. 

There’s nothing written down except the number, but Angelica suspects Washington’s handwriting is equally neat. Probably printed, maybe all caps. 

She’s stalling again. She hates this. 

It’s — she checks her watch. Quarter past eight on a Sunday night. No way is he still at the office; even his direct line is likely to ring through to voicemail. There’s no reason for her not to call. This isn’t anything serious, not really; she’s been attracted to him for years and she can half-imagine that it’s mutual now, that’s all. There’s nothing wrong with exercising her imagination. 

She still holds her breath as she dials.

###

It’s kind of a letdown, honestly. 

Angelica knows better than to stay on the line as long as she has already; she probably should have hung up after the third or fourth ring, but she’s bizarrely curious. She doesn’t think she’ll leave a voicemail, but it’s been almost a minute and a half and there’s still no sign of life. 

The phone’s on speaker, resting on her chest with the mouthpiece angled toward her collarbone. Every five seconds it lets out a dull trill. She’ll hang up when she’s been waiting for two minutes, she thinks, glancing at her watch.

As she’s putting her hand back down on her stomach, there’s a click, and then Washington’s voice, recognizable even over the line.

“Hello?”

Angelica doesn’t say anything, suddenly panicked into silence. She tries not to breathe.

“Who is this? How did you get this number?” 

It’s impossible for her to parse Washington’s tone, but it doesn’t sound pleased. 

Angelica called on her personal cell phone, without taking any precautions; even a cursory check will link this number back to her. There’s no going back, so she has to follow through.

“Senator Washington,” she says, finally. Her voice cracks, just for a moment, before she can bring it under control. She hopes it wasn’t audible; she’s not speaking directly into the phone, it’s still on her chest, on speaker. 

There’s a long silence. 

“Hello?” Angelica asks, not sure if the call dropped — but no, there’s the crackling sound of an exhale. 

“Sorry to call so late,” she adds, suddenly unsure what she’s even doing, here. “I didn’t realize you’d still be at the office. I was just going to leave a message.” 

“I’m not. At the office, that is,” he replies, after another silence. “This is a private number.”

"Oh,” Angelica says. Is this a home line? No, it can’t be, why would he have given her a home number to call. A cell phone? Does he have more than one cell phone? 

There’s a cell number listed on his card, on the front — she checks — but it’s not the same as the handwritten number she dialed. She hadn’t had him pegged as tech savvy enough to fully understand how to use one cell phone, nevermind... whatever this is. A burner?

Angelica is suddenly not sure what she’s doing. Why did he give her this number? Does he do this — whatever _this_ is — often?

“This is Angelica Schuyler,” she says, in her best professional voice. She’d been caught so off guard by the way he picked up that she had utterly failed to introduce herself. She blames the wine. 

“Yes,” Washington says. “It’s a pleasure to hear from you, Miss Schuyler, though I have to admit I didn’t expect you to call so soon. Or so late.”

“You can call me Angelica,” Angelica blurts out, because she’s used to trusting her mind, opening her mouth and letting something clever fall out without any effort on her part. That strategy normally works for her; it’s just that she’s had an entire bottle of wine, most of it on an empty stomach. 

“Angelica,” Washington says, agreeably. 

“I mean,” Angelica says, quietly thumping her fist into one of the pillows next to her as she shifts. Why is she suddenly so bad at this. “What I meant to say is, I can call you back at a more convenient time? I really did just intend to leave you a message, I didn’t mean to interrupt your Sunday night.” 

“It’s quite alright,” Washington says. “I was just doing some reading.” 

“For work?” Angelica asks, half-interested; she _would_ like to know some more about his career. She hasn’t had the chance to take a look at his more recent voting record or legislative priorities, since she saw him on Friday, but given how she grew up, she’ll probably understand what he's working on. 

“No, no,” Washington says. “Just revisiting some old favorites.”

“Well, I don’t want to interrupt,” Angelica says. She wonders what he’s reading.“I’ll let you get back to your books.” 

“You’re not,” Washington replies. “I had the evening to myself; I’ve nearly finished my book. I was thinking about doing some crossword puzzles.”

She’s not sure if he’s joking, and she’s trying to come up with a response that’ll be teasing but not mocking, when she opens her mouth and what comes out is: “Is your wife back from her trip?” 

Fuck. Stupid, stupid; she knows that was incredibly transparent, way too forward. She’s still ninety percent sure she’s totally misread this whole interaction, that he’s not flirting with her at all. She must just be getting carried away, acting like she’s still eighteen with a crush and reading way too much into the sort of polite respect that comes from a man who still thinks of her as a child.

There’s a brief pause, and then Washington says, “Is Mr. Church back in New York?” 

Well. Maybe not, then, or at least: fair’s fair, Angelica thinks. If he wants to parry her nosy question with one of his own, she’s happy to answer his. Hopefully it’ll make him feel obligated to offer her the truth, too. Inspire reciprocity. 

“Yeah,” she says, “he just came down for the weekend.” 

“I see,” Washington says. “So you two live separately? He’s not planning on relocating?” 

Angelica laughs, hard, despite herself. John’s like Europe: nice to visit, but she wouldn’t want to live there. The wine’s hit her a little harder than she thought it had. At least she’s still sober enough to realize she’s probably not at her best right now. 

“No,” she says, aware that her smile, the remnants of her laugh, must be audible in her voice. “He’s not planning on _relocating_.” Honestly. What a ridiculous idea. 

“If I may ask,” Washington says, “why are you in the District, then? I know your family is in New York, and I know you don’t have much of an interest in politics.” 

Angelica doesn’t have an answer for that. She’s lived in New York her entire life; it’s still the only city in the world to her, and probably always will be. She could find a job there more easily than she could here, probably, something she’s qualified for. 

She didn’t want to rely on her parents to get herself a job, but if she’d really wanted to get away from her family’s connections, she could have, should have, picked a different city — Seattle, maybe, or somewhere in California, or even Canada; John’s a citizen, they could have relocated. 

She’s not sure why she’s in D.C. 

She sidesteps the question.

“I’m interested in politics,” Angelica protests. “I vote. I am invested in the future of this great nation.” 

“That may be true, but it’s not what you studied,” Washington says. “I took the liberty of having a look at your thesis, and — while I’m not sure I fully understood it, it’s advanced work and not in my field — it looks like you sidestep the potential and legal implications of — ” 

“Where did you get a copy of my thesis?” Angelica interrupts him, her tone sharp, a ball of anxiety roiling in the pit of her stomach. “And anyway, it’s complicated, my — I had some difficulties with intellectual property, there was a visiting professor...” 

Angelica heaves in a deep breath. Her first year of grad school was a mess, but that’s behind her. Washington doesn’t need to know how much that experience still galls her, despite how badly she’d love to go back and finish her Ph.D. But academia’s been soured for her; she needed to take a break.

Washington replies as she’s still collecting herself. “My apologies,” he says. “I didn’t mean to overstep. Your work is available digitally from the university library, I asked Martha to send it to me. I was curious.” 

“Oh,” Angelica says. “So she’s — still in the city, then?” And sending her husband copies of Angelica’s academic writing. She honestly has no idea what to do with that. She’s pretty sure she still won’t know what to do with that when she’s sobered up a little. 

“She lives there,” Washington says. “Most of the year, at least. We generally maintain separate households, though we spend time together when the senate’s out of session, and of course she comes back to Virginia for the campaign season.” 

“Of course,” Angelica says. Does _separate households_ mean what Angelica thinks it does?

“Anyway,” Washington said, as if he hadn’t just confessed — possibly confessed? — to being separated from his wife. “If you’re _interested in politics_ , then, I’ll check again whether I have any vacancies on my staff. I took a quick look yesterday, and I believe there are a few openings, but I’d have to review my staff more thoroughly before I make any formal offers. I’m sure you understand.”

Angelica tells herself not to be stupid. There’s no way this means what she thinks it does; he’s probably just doing a favor for a colleague’s kid. 

Her phone is still resting on her breast, on top of her robe, and Angelica is very aware, suddenly, that she’s on the phone with Washington practically naked, in her bed. She stifles a giddy giggle, brings her hand up to her face to cover her mouth, and catches sight of the wristwatch. 

Well. Okay. This doesn’t mean anything, right? If it’s anything, it’s a meaningless flirtation; if it’s nothing, it might still land her a job. 

“What availabilities do you have?” Angelica asks, trying to project poise. She finds herself sitting up straighter, too, which is ridiculous; she almost drops her phone. But if this is a job interview, or pre-interview — Christ, this is ridiculous, this is the least prepared Angelica has ever been for — well, for _anything_ related to her career. She’s tipsy, in bed in her underwear, and on the phone with a United States Senator who’s willing to offer her a job. A giggle escapes her, and then another one. This is _farcical_.

“Sorry,” she says as soon as she can. “Sorry. I may have had a little wine before I called. I didn’t expect you to pick up, I was just going to — leave a voicemail saying I’d call you back and hang up.”

“It’s alright,” Washington says, but Angelica can’t parse his tone.

“I’m not drunk,” she says, defensive. Fuck fuck fuck, she’s definitely ruining her shot at this. Pull yourself together, Angelica. “Just... giggly. Sorry. Um. Anyway. What were your potential availabilities?” 

“It really is alright,” Washington says, kindly. His voice is very soothing. “And, again, I’ll have to review my staff notes from my work computer tomorrow, but I believe there are openings in polling, the administrative pool, and communications.”

“Ah,” Angelica says. She’s not sure whether she should be offended. She thinks she probably should be.

“Of course,” Washington says, “you’d still need to interview, go through proper channels. And there may be another position that’s slipped my mind, or that I hadn’t considered.”

Definitely offended, now, Angelica bites out, "I'm don’t have the math to do any of the analytical work, for polling, as I’m sure you know, having looked at my academic records. I don't want to be a secretary. And I have absolutely no interest in working on your public image, Senator."

“Yes,” he says, after a moment. His voice crackles over the phone. “I imagine your presence on my spin team might be counterproductive.” 

“What,” Angelica says, aware that she’s bristling too hard. “You don’t think I could do it?”

“I think you are a profoundly capable young woman,” Washington says. “But I also think you have a tendency to speak your mind that would not necessarily serve you well in the public eye.” 

“I know how to keep my mouth shut,” Angelica says, trying to keep every hint of petulance out of her tone.

“Yes,” Washington says, after a pause. He lingers over the words, dragging them out. “I imagine you’re more than capable of discretion.”

Angelica’s mouth feels dry. She swallows. Before she can respond, Washington lowers his voice and continues. 

“I have always found that tendency — impolitic honesty even in the face of all good sense — to be a compelling quality.” 

For the first time, Angelica wonders whether she’s in over her head. 

“Well,” Angelica says, before hanging up, “you have my number. Call me if something real opens up.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so... a lot of... groundwork gets laid in this chapter. lots of epistolary long-distance stuff. finally: hamilton. anyway.
> 
> thanks to everyone who helped me out with this chapter!

Angelica has two weeks until she’s going back up to the city. It motivates her, honestly; deadlines always have. She wakes up on Monday morning and decides to do something with her time.

She hasn’t been looking hard enough for a job. She has a standing offer, but it’s one she’s never going to take, for a variety of reasons. But she hasn’t been looking hard enough for anything else to do, either.

She’s hitting her limit for boredom; she’d enjoyed her summer off, after graduation, but her body — her mind — isn’t used to doing _nothing_ for more than a month at a time. Even over summers, she usually had _something_ to do: a vacation spent traveling, visiting historical sites and museums; summer classes, or an internship, or an opportunity to work with a renowned author.

Which, well, look how that turned out, Angelica’s thesis gutted and a full semester spent struggling for ownership of her stolen words. But hey: at least that was a learning experience, right?

So. She wants to find something to do; a job of some sort would be ideal, but there _is_ a reason she’s waited, so far, she’s got a point to make. But she’s probably made it, at this point. She could easily move back to New York to look for work there, if she wanted to.

But she doesn’t want to. She loves New York — it’s home. But she likes D.C., too. She likes being somewhere different, somewhere there’s distance between her and home, but still familiar; she likes being a full weekend trip’s drive away from her friends, her sisters, further than a subway ride away.

So: she has things to do before she visits home in New York. The city, not the lake house near Albany where her family’s still celebrating her parent’s anniversary.

After breakfast (raw fruit straight out of the fridge, black coffee, and a handful of granola, eaten out of the palm of her hand), Angelica digs out her grad school graduation present from the back of her closet: a classic attache case from her parents, filled with stationery and notebooks from Eliza, an extremely fashionable pair of sunglasses from her mother, and drugstore candy from Peggy. Angelica hasn’t used it since graduation; she hasn’t had the chance.

The candy’s mostly gone, though a few individually wrapped Werther’s caramels fall out of the bag as she overturns it onto her kitchen table. There’s a pencil case, too, which she unzips to find a nice pen and a few pre-loaded mechanical pencils, made out of metal and with a pleasant weight to them in her hand.

She slides the the stationery and shrink-wrapped notebooks out, arranges them into a neat pile, and inspects them. Mostly lined or squared moleskines, a slim booklet about how to write a resume, a few legal pads, and a thick spiral-bound notebook with blank pages, possibly for sketching.

Angelica digs a thumbnail under the edge of the clingwrap on a graph-paper moleskine and peels it off, leaving a crumpled shiny tangle on the table, and clicks one of the mechanical pencils a few times. Alright.

She turns to the fourth page, so she can have a flyleaf and add fiddly bits at the front of the book later, and spreads her palm out, straightens the notebook, trying to get it to lay flat on the table. She counts out the number of little boxes in each row, divides it by four, and marks where the resulting four columns will lie, just little notches penciled in at the top and bottom of the page.

Preparations complete, Angelica writes _Find a Job_ at the top of one column. Underneath, she writes:

_\- Ideally D.C.  
\- Qualifications?_

She taps the end of the pencil against the notebook a few times, before pressing her lips together and fetching and crossing out those two subpoints. She checks the pencil case for an eraser, and, having found one, erases them instead. She leaves the eraser shavings on the page.

Instead, she writes:

_\- Resume / C.V.  
\- Recommendations _

She lightly pencils in _(TJ?)_ after _Recommendations_. Angelica's not sure about that; it's a whole other can of worms to reopen. She'll have to think about it. For now, she moves on; she skips four or five lines and, in the same column, adds:

 _\- near DC_  
_\- Qualifications?_  
_\- Grad school again???_

Angelica wants to go to back to school, in the same vague way she wants the rest of her future to fall into place. But it’s something distant, something that’s not on her plate for a year or two, at least. Longer, if she finds a job she likes, and she might wanna go back to school for something else. And she... doesn’t want to be the kind of person she was in grad school forever, the same way she doesn’t want to be the kind of person she was in high school.

She can’t add much more to this column until she starts actively looking for jobs, so she leaves the rest of it blank and moves onto the next column. _New York Trip._

 _\- pack_ , she writes, adding _(from a list)_  
_\- staying? (w/Burr obv but cnfrm)_  
_\- email faculty (time for visit) ** job rec?_  
_\- find pot. positions - intvw?_  
_\- check avail. of thesis,_ which isn’t urgent, but it’s a little worrisome how easily a stranger could get to it; she jots it down, just so she doesn’t forget.

She’s not sure what else to add. What else is important about visiting the city? Angelica is going to see her sisters, even if she stays on Burr’s pull-out couch (she can’t stay in Peggy’s dorm room or in Eliza’s cramped studio). She chews on the tip of the mechanical pencil for a second, before she catches herself and pulls the metal cap out of her mouth. Right.

_\- John (?)_

She’s not sure what he wants, other than to see her, but that’s something to keep in mind.

There’s barely any writing on the page, and the notebook’s mostly empty, but at least now she’s got an organized framework to build off of. She can come back to it later, fill out her thoughts. Now, moving on to more important things: Angelica snaps the elastic bookmark to the correct page, shuts her notebook, and pulls the box of stationery off the top of the stack of notebooks.

It’s nice. The paper’s off-white, with an embossed golden bee ( _busy bee, Angelica, you work so hard!_ ) at the top and Angelica’s monogram stamped at the bottom, a swirl of lines. She opens one of the card, digs the nice pen out of its case. She takes a moment to examine the wristwatch, admire it on her wrist, before she starts to write.

_Senator Washington —_

Fuck. She’s got no idea what to say. Angelica is normally very good at writing thank you notes, a childhood of practice having honed the skill, but she’s stumped, feels stupid with her crush. She puts her pen away and folds the card, tucks it away in its envelope, in order to doodle-brainstorm in pencil, on a fringed piece of blank paper she ripped out of the spiral-bound notebook.

_Senator Washington:_

_I was so surprised when you ~~gave~~ ~~lent~~ gave me your spare watch that I don’t believe I ever thanked you properly! It’s a lovely timepiece; I will endeavor to honor the spirit in which it was given. _

What _spirit_ was it given in. She doesn’t know; that’s the problem. She decides to leave it. He can read whatever he wants into that.

Angelica should offer to return it — it’s a princely gift, given on the spur of the moment — but she’s not going to. He shouldn’t have offered something to her if he didn’t intend for her to keep it. He should probably know that about her.  

_It fits perfectly; I think it suits me, and I love the way it makes me feel._

Probably too flirty — Angelica feels like she might as well have said “thanks for the watch and, indirectly, several outstanding orgasms” — but she _could_ argue an innocent interpretation, so. That’s fine.

_I also_

No. Angelica crosses that out.

_~~I also~~  Your phone call was _

Even worse. Angelica crosses it out and chews on the end of her pencil.

 _~~I also~~ _ ~~_Your phone call was_ ~~ _I have been seeking direction, and your advice was incredibly helpful. I hope to work with you more closely, & look forward to your mentorship. I am sure I & my career will flourish under your guidance. _

Which, well, he hasn’t exactly offered to _mentor_ her, but Angelica figures she can swing it. She’s being clear and direct about what she wants; historically, that’s worked for her. Not that she really has much to compare this to.

_Thank you so much for your generosity._

Angelica signs her name with a flourish.

She copies the edited end result out onto her stationery with her nice pen, and looks it over with a critical eye before signing her initials. This is probably too forward, or maybe not forward enough, but she thinks they passed that point when she asked him about his marriage. At least, she hopes.

Angelica waves the card around for a moment until the ink dries before sliding it into its matching envelope. She addresses the envelope to _G. Wash._ before turning it over and daintily licking the flap, pressing a fingernail along the edge to seal it.

This stationery is too nice to put through the post, and it’s always better to deliver thanks by hand.

Angelica’s dad should be back in town; his office is on the same floor as Washington’s. Her father got back into town on a red-eye at five this morning, so she can drop the note at Washington’s office there when she has lunch with her father.

She checks her watch; it’s only ten. That gives Angelica two hours before she has to head out to his office.

Angelica knows she dropped off the face of the planet after graduation; she should get back in touch with people. She packs all her notebooks back into her briefcase, except the moleskine she’d been using; she keeps that with her as she grabs her laptop and wakes it up.

She checks her email; she’s got a couple hundred unread emails. She archives all the newsletters and coupons to look at later, leaving about 30 — she can probably get through those. The ones labeled ‘School’ are the most time-sensitive ones, probably, if she wants to have anything written waiting for her when she goes back up to the city. She has a few letters of recommendation, but most of them date from undergrad, at this point, and her resume needs an update, too.

Starting with the oldest messages, Angelica replies to her professors — letting them know she’ll be visiting in early October, dropping the usual hints to indicate that she’d love a letter of recommendation without getting herself labeled bossy or entitled. She doesn’t use a form letter, because teachers in a department sometimes compare, but she’s only got a handful to write and it’s easy, to let her mind slide back into her professional mode. It’s great, she doesn’t feel rusty at all; Angelica loves this, loves working with her mind.

When she looks at what’s left in her inbox, it’s been reduced to the personal and manageable. Travel pictures from her aunts and uncles, a couple links to cute videos, from her sisters. Burr sent her an email with an attachment; probably some writing he’s been working on, which she’ll look at later; she texts him that it got through, though, or he’ll worry. There’s an email from a name she doesn’t recognize — _alexander_hamilton@columbia.edu_ — from a few weeks ago, early in September; probably a student who got an old copy of some curriculum and emailed her before he realized she wasn’t actually his TA. It’s happened before. She deletes it unopened.

There’s also, more interestingly, an email from Angelica’s only ex-girlfriend. She hasn’t heard from Maria in ages, not since they broke up while Angelica was still in undergrad and Maria finished her MFA.

 _mcosway@CdG.edu_ \- **Re: Citizenship** \- 13 Sept., 2015

Angelica reads it over. Maria’s gotten her citizenship, which is great; she’s getting a divorce, which is interesting, if no longer particularly relevant to Angelica, seeing as Maria’s located in Dallas and Angelica has no desire to set foot in Texas, but she’s happy Maria’s happy. She’s working at a religious — but tolerant, apparently — girls’ school teaching art, which certainly suits.

It's a nice message, the sort of semiannual correspondence that comes from an amicable breakup; all the good nostalgia with none of the bad.

That's when Angelica's eye catches on a sentence in the penultimate paragraph.

_Thomas asked me to send his love, he says you are ignoring his messages?_

Angelica can feel herself going cold with emotion — possibly rage, she's not really sure. She doesn't have the time to deal with this right now but. Christ. Looks like she _will_ have to get back in touch.

She dashes something quick and fond and completely unrelated to anything having to do with — that, asking Maria to let her know if she's ever in town, and then checks her watch again. It's a bit early to be leaving for for lunch, but honestly, Angelica needs to clear her head. She gathers up her things — tucks the thank you note into her purse, makes sure she looks nice, if casual. She’s wearing the clothes she's planning to wear to the gym, after this.

Angelica stands by her front door for a moment, deciding whether to drive. She doesn't particularly want to — she hates city driving, and it'll be hell finding parking near her favorite cafe.

A compromise: she’ll grab food here and then drive it over. Angelica grabs her keys before heading out. She buys two sandwiches and two coffees, one for herself and one for her father, from the cafe on her block before heading to her building’s garage to pick up her car.

###

An hour and a half later, Angelica pulls into the garage at her father’s office with two empty medium lattes in her cupholders, and a bag with hopefully-still-warm toasted sandwiches sitting on her front seat. Her car is decaled to get through security. She leaves the empty cups in the car — her dad won’t know she drank his coffee if she doesn’t let him see it.

She has the elevator to herself, and presses the button for the twelfth floor, coming up with excuses for missed family time that won’t result in immediate parental interference. _I was sick. Termites ate my house. I crashed my car. My secret boyfriend wanted to visit._ None of them sound like real possibilities, not even the truth.

At the third floor, someone else gets on. He’s young, and looks familiar, though Angelica's not sure where she's seen him before; it’s likely she’s seen him around the office, if he works here. He turns to peer at the floor buttons, before beaming at her. “Floor twelve,” he says, still smiling. Angelica places his face, then — he's Washington’s aide, the one from the party.

This is perfect.

“You work for Washington, right?” Angelica says, though she's sure he does. “I saw you at the party on Friday.”

“Ah,” the young man says, “yes, of course! Miss Schuyler.” Angelica wonders how he knows her name. Well, presumably Washington mentioned her, but she wonders what he said.

“I wrote the Senator a note — would you mind delivering it?” Angelica says, opening her purse to dig the note out. “I was going to drop it off after lunch with my father, but if you're headed to see him anyway —”

“He's out of the office for the morning and lunch,” the aide says, apologetically, “so you would not be able to give it to him now in any case. But I would be happy to deliver it when he returns!”

Angelica smiles, and hands the note over. “Thank you. You can just leave it on his desk,” she says, and the aide accepts the envelope carefully, before tucking it into his breast pocket.

“I will ensure its safe delivery,” he says, gravely, as they step off the elevator, and Angelica has to hide a smile as she thanks him again. Cute kid; he's probably Peggy's age. So serious. He's still got his frat pin on his lapel.

She turns off into the hallway that houses her dad's office and takes a deep breath, hoisting her lunch delivery high. Time to face the music.

###

Her dad looks awful; he's too old for red-eye flights. She kisses his cheek and presents him with his sandwich, and he bristles at her briefly, for missing the anniversary — it's not any particularly special year, thirty-nine years married. Angelica will be at the next one for the big party. The big four-oh.

She tells him she's started looking for jobs, which is, predictably, exciting enough news that he forgets his irritation entirely. Angelica's old hat at this by now; she knows how to soften a blow to her parents. She mentions that she's getting interviews lined up, here and at home, and that she’s planning on going up to the city in October to get some recommendations, see how things play out. Neither of them mentions her standing offer from UVA.

Her dad frowns while folding up the empty square of waxed aluminum foil around the crusts of his ham on rye. “I know some parts of graduate school were very difficult for you. I wish you'd told us — myself or your mother — about it. We want to help. If you’re having difficulties again, just... know that we'll do whatever we can.”

Angelica leans over her dad's desk and kisses his grey temple. “That's sweet, papa,” she says, biting back a smile. “But I'm a big girl, and I can take care of myself.”

“You take too much on alone,” her dad says, and then, “I'm not going to tell you that you ought to settle down, I'm not your mother, but I'd be happier if I knew you had someone you could rely —”

This is too much. Firmly, Angelica says “I have Peggy and Eliza, and Burr, and my friends. I'm fine.”

Her dad sighs. “Just. If there's someone, you can tell me. I won't pry.” He smiles, wryly. “Again: I'm not your mother.”

Angelica smiles back, and says, “I know. I'd tell you, if there was someone real. I do just fine, dating. You and mom just don’t need to hear about the duds.” It doesn't even feel like a lie.

###

With lunch eaten and her filial duties (another hour of conversation and gossip) discharged, Angelica pauses in the hallway outside her father's office and takes a deep breath. She feels good; nothing monumental has happened so far, but the choice to do something, to get out of her head and back into the world, is freeing.

She firms her grip on her purse, and decides to take the stairs down to the basement parking garage. No one ever takes the stairs in this ancient office building; they're steep, and most senators’ private offices are ten floors up or more. Angelica doesn't know any health nuts dedicated enough to do that, and definitely none who work in government.

But Angelica's purse is zipped up, and she's wearing sneakers instead of heels for once in her life, so she lets herself into the stairwell. She hurries down the stairs, taking the bottom half of each flight at a jump, the way she used to as a kid, until Peggy copied her and broke her arm. The way Angelica still sometimes does, obviously, when she doesn't have to be an adult.

So of course she nearly bowls Washington over, somewhere in between the seventh and eighth floors.

Angelica had jumped from the fourth step, landing hard but not painfully, and then put a hand on the railing to swing herself around, ready to take the next flight. And there was Washington, on the phone in golf clothes, standing on a landing five floors beneath his office. Briefly, Angelica wonders if she's somehow imagining this, hallucinating it, but he's frozen and staring back at her, too.

He rallies — shuts his mouth and clears his throat before saying “I'll call you back, Lafayette,” and hanging up. His eyes are still fixed on her.

“Shit,” Angelica says, mortified beyond belief, and then: “Hi, Senator.”

She hasn't done anything to her hair except put it back, she's not wearing makeup, and she's wearing a tank top with spandex tights that cut off at mid-calf. She looks _fine_ , everyday looks or whatever, but not... professional. Definitely not dressy.

Also, he just caught her running down the stairs like a child.

She's delivered lunch to her dad pretty much every day and she's never run into Washington before. She didn’t realize this was even a problem she should have anticipated.

“Angelica,” Washington replies, gravely, and her heart does acrobatics. “A pleasure to see you, as always.”

“What are you doing here?” Angelica asks, despite herself.

But he smiles, and says “I work here. You were visiting your father?”

Angelica says, so incredulously she’s aware that it’s probably offensive, “I meant — do you take the stairs every day?”

Washington pulls back the sleeve on his sweater to show her a — what looks like a fitbit, on his right wrist. “Have to stay active, at my age,” he says, his tone rueful.

Angelica says “I wouldn’t have pegged you —” fuck fuck FUCK “I mean, I figured you’d hate things like that.”

Nice save, Angelica.

She wants to go down the stairs towards him but she seems to have forgotten how to walk without looking like an idiot. She tries anyway, white-knuckle grip on her purse and leaning heavily on the banister. His eyes flicker to her wrist, where she’s wearing his watch, and he takes a step forward.

“I do hate these devices, but Martha checks the usage online from New York, somehow, and she’s beating me for steps this month.”

Angelica stops on the bottom step. He’s half a head taller than her, and she’s not wearing heels, but she’s not willing to give up the height advantage just yet.

“You two have an _open_ and trusting relationship, I take it,” she says, and this is dumb, this is so dumb, he’s standing close enough to her that — she can’t get her eyes off his mouth.

He abruptly takes three steps back, until his back is nearly pressed against the wall.

“Angelica, there are cameras in the stairwells here.”

To her credit, it takes Angelica no time at all to catch up. She steps down onto the landing and looks up at Washington.

“Of course,” she says. “Well, it was nice to bump into you. I left a note with your aide. And again, if any jobs open up, please call.”

Angelica brushes past him, ignoring his protest at her departure — he says her first name again, which fills Angelica with a sort of got-away-with-something glee — and walks down the stairs with as much dignity as she can muster. She tries very hard not to let her hips sway, desperately hoping he’s watching her go but unwilling to check.

When he hasn’t come after her by the time she gets to the fifth floor, she turns to slip onto the landing and take the elevator the rest of the way down. With her hand on the handle, she thinks about Washington stepping away from her. What the hell, and damn the security cameras.

She takes the rest of the stairs at a run.

###

Later that afternoon, after a workout, chased by a five mile run and, fine, a smoothie made with the groceries John left in her fridge, Angelica texts Burr again.

Angelica  
Can I stay at your place when I come  
up to the city?

Burr  
You haven’t read my email yet, have you.

 

Fine, so she hasn’t. No need for him to get all snippy. She pulls up her inbox.

 

_A -_

_For a variety of personal reasons I’m only living in my apartment part time; I have a subletter. He’s the guy I wanted to you to meet, actually. He just finished up at Columbia Law with me. Have attached a picture so you know who the strange man in my apartment is if you let yourself in. He likes your writing; I think he could keep up with you._

_You’re still welcome to stay there if you want, I know you have a key & no one’s sleeping on the couch, so that’s still available. He doesn’t know how to shut up, but he’ll leave you alone if you’re busy and have work to get done. _

_If you want to make alternate arrangements I understand & apologize. _

_-AB_ _  
_ _PS. I’ll tell you the personal reasons when I see you in person. Don’t bother asking._

The attachment, not an essay after all, is a photo of Burr standing next to some guy. The picture’s titled ‘hamilton.png’; Burr is so unoriginal. The pictures Angelica and her sisters send are always titled things like ‘this fuckin guy.png’ or ‘her HAIR omg.jpg’.

The name rings a bell, though. Angelica clicks on the photo to maximize it.

Aaron’s got one of his stiff smiles on, the one with shades of _i fucking hate everything about this_ , but also lurking fondness, _i can’t believe you talked me into this/why am i friends with you/(friends!)_. It’s the smile he’s wearing in the photos from every formal dance Angelica’s ever attended. She’s inclined to like anyone who can make Burr smile like that; as far as Angelica knew, she was the only one.

The guy — Hamilton, apparently, maybe the guy who emailed her? — is grinning hugely, still wearing his goofy velvet graduation cap. Burr got rid of his as soon as he possibly could; Angelica is still trying to find pictures of him wearing it. The guy’s cute, he’s got a nice face. Big smile, his hair put back in what looks like a messy bun.

Hamilton has his arm around Burr, his hand pressed into Burr’s shoulder like he’s trying to use it to leverage himself up taller. Which is understandable; he’s short, looks like he’s about her height. Maybe shorter. He’s wearing a terrible suit, or at least one that looks terrible by contrast to Burr’s. Neither of them is wearing their sky-blue Columbia robes. Disappointing, but probably for the best; it’s not a flattering color on Burr, and it doesn’t look like it’d look good on Hamilton, either.

Angelica texts Burr back.

Angelica  
I’ll probably stay @ yours but I might also make  
arrangements.

Burr  
Not staying with your boyfriend?

Angelica  
fuck off !! christ

I don’t give you shit about your relationship, do  
I? How’s Mrs. Robinson?

Burr  
Just checking. & don’t talk about her like that.

See you when you get in. Drinks on me.

 

Angelica rolls her eyes. He’s useless. She takes a look at the email from Hamilton, digs it back out of her trash.

It’s not, apparently, some email from a kid who thought she was the TA; it’s long — like, a couple thousand words at least — mostly uncapitalized, missing paragraph breaks and full of sentences that curl in on themselves until not even Angelica can tell if any given clause is a comma splice.

Angelica can’t read this, it’s making her eyes hurt just to look at it. She scans it over, quickly, and doesn’t glean much; mostly that Hamilton has a mouth on him — the letter’s not quite profanity-riddled, but there are long strings of capslocked and imaginative insults — and that he hates Jefferson, Jefferson’s writing, everything Jefferson stands for, and possibly Angelica, for having deigned to publish writing with him.

She types a short email — _It took me a lot of work to get that co-authorship at all._ — but doesn’t send it. Angelica’s not interested in making excuses, especially not to strangers.

Angelica calls Peggy, instead; her sister picks up on the third ring.

“Hey!” Peggy says, bright and cheerful. Angelica misses her sisters, abruptly, with an ache that’s physical, a throbbing in her chest. She’s so glad she’ll see them again soon; she wishes she’d said no to John, seen them over the weekend. “I only have like twenty minutes until I have to be at a thing I’m organizing for the ISO.”

Angelica rolls her eyes, because Peggy can’t see her. “Okay, Ted Allen,” she says, “have fun liberating the proletariat. I have a question,” she continues, before Peggy can take offense.

“Yeah?” Peggy asks. “What’s up?”

“Do you know Burr’s subletter? I mean, have you met?”

“Alex?” Peggy says, and laughs. “Yeah, he’s great. I thought we weren’t supposed to mention him to you, I think Burr is scared you’d team up on him.”

Angelica thinks. If Peggy likes him, this guy is probably a loudmouth; she’d guessed that much already, but: “What does Eliza think of him?”

“Betsey?” Peggy says, surprised. “She loves him. I mean, you know Eliza, she’s nice to _everyone_ , but she really likes him. Like, a lot. He flirts with her all the time and you know she normally hates that, but she flirts back, sometimes. Not in a bad way! Like, he knows she’s gay, it’s all very — ” she pitches her voice higher, into Eliza’s lovely soprano “ — ‘if only you were a girl!’ And then he —” Peggy pitches her voice lower again, though not by much. “ — ‘if wishing made it so,’ y’know,” she continues, her voice back at its normal pitch. “They get along really well, he thinks she’s awesome.”

There’s approval in Peggy’s voice. Angelica feels it too, by proxy; she finds it very difficult to dislike anyone her sisters are fond of.

“So I should give him a chance?” she asks Peggy, amused.

“Yeah! He’s smart and not boring and he’s not a dick.” Ouch. Peggy, especially, hates Angelica’s taste in men. “I think you two would get along, and also, it would make Burr cry, and I know how you love to make that happen.”

“Of course,” Angelica says, amused. “I’ll make sure you’re there to see it.”

“Just like middle school!” Peggy exclaims. "And high school," she adds, and Angelica winces; she’s not actually all that proud of her mean-girl phase, no matter how funny Peggy finds it in retrospect.

“Anyway,” Peggy continues, “Oh, shit, I’m actually already half an hour late, — bye! Love you, see you next week!”

“Love you too,” Angelica replies as Peggy is hanging up, mostly speaking to the dial tone. Peggy’s relationship with time has always been pliable.

Angelica checks her watch; it’s four thirty. She was planning on going to a movie at six, and dinner after. She’s got time to shoot Hamilton a quick note, maybe stalk his facebook, if he has one. It turns out he does; she messages him there, instead of having to acknowledge his email, just to find out if he’d mind her crashing on his couch for a while, and flips through his photos.

There aren’t a ton that are available to view, which is a good sign, in that it indicates that he is not an idiot, but it’s frustrating. He looks exhausted in most of them, bruise-dark circles under his eyes, either scrawny in t-shirts or drowning in suit jackets. They have a few dozen mutual friends, mostly other Columbia grads, as well as both of Angelica’s sisters. And Burr, of course.

Angelica suddenly notices that Hamilton’s read her chat message, and that he’s typing a reply, so she quickly closes the tab.

She got a lot done today, Angelica thinks as she’s getting changed.

###

The movie — something artsy Eliza recommended; Angelica didn’t get much out of it — anyway, the movie lets out at eight thirty.  Angelica filters back out onto the street with her hands jammed into her pockets, heading over to her favorite restaurant, four blocks away, on autopilot.

The hostess recognizes her, and takes her to her usual table, tucked away in the back. She doesn’t bother with a menu, just confirms Angelica’s order. She eats here a few times a week, and tips well; the employees all know her.

She drapes her jacket over the back of her chair and unwinds her scarf, settling into the small corner booth. Normally she’d still be thinking about the movie, but she really was... distracted through most of it, wondering whether Washington got her note, whether she blew it with him, whether she’s been totally misreading this whole situation. She’d never admit to it, but she’s been concerned about Burr, too.

Angelica turns her phone back on, switches it out of airplane mode from the movie theatre and leaves it on the table. She sips at her water.

Her phone buzzes, screen lighting up with missed alerts. She missed a call from John, apparently, about an hour ago. She’ll call him back in a second — the waitress is coming back with the bread.

Her phone rings, though, and it’s John, so Angelica picks up and mouths _thank you_ at the waitress.

“Hey!” John says. “I called earlier, figured I’d try you again.”

“Yeah,” Angelica says, “sorry, I had my phone off, I was just about to call you back.”

“That’s fine,” John says, and she can hear him smiling. “So, I was thinking about your trip to the city —”

“I’m staying with Burr,” Angelica says, and, because she doesn’t like having the fight about how she won’t move in, adds “at least officially.”

“That’s fine,” John says, and Angelica hates that her immediate response is a flash of suspicion. What does he want from her, that he’s giving on this without a fight?

“I just had something I wanted to mention,” he finishes.

“Alright,” Angelica says, still wary.

“I think we should talk about getting married,” John says. “I’m going to propose, soon, but figured you wouldn’t appreciate having that sprung on you. So. Think about it, yeah?”

“Sure,” Angelica says, her heart pounding. She hopes it’s not obvious how taken aback she is. “I’ll think about it.”

“Great,” John says, and she makes it through the rest of the conversation on cruise control, barely checked-in. When he finally hangs up, Angelica still isn’t sure what to think. He’s right that she wouldn’t appreciate a spontaneous proposal, especially not in public, but this wasn’t _a conversation about marriage_ either, it was him telling Angelica what he wanted. That’s... she’s not thrilled with that.

But John’s a good boyfriend; he listens when she talks and he isn’t selfish in bed, and he’s put up with being a secret for over two years. She’s not sure she’s willing to throw that away, just yet.

###

When Angelica gets home, she’s in a royal mood. Dinner was awful; the food was good, but she didn’t enjoy it, and she’s never been so aware of how lonely her apartment is. Maybe she should get a cat, or a roommate. Something.

She feeds her fish before she checks her computer; when she gets to it, she’s received half a dozen messages and a friend request from Alexander Hamilton. She’s still pretty sure this guy is a pretentious asshole, but it’s not like she’s not into that, and he’s clever. He’s exactly the kind of guy she loves working with, or, well. Competing with. If he's trying to flatter her, manipulate her, whatever, he's picked the right way to do it; she can feel herself being — reluctantly — charmed.

Alexander Hamilton  
dude of course you can crash at mine

like it;s not even really mine it’s burr’s  
and ur friends with burr so. sure  
whenever u want for as long as u want

it’s**

anyway sorry about that email i sent u i  
hadn’t read your thesis yet all i read was  
that shit jefferson published with yr name  
on it. can u believe burr likes that guy???

anyway do u have thoughts abt the  
implications of ur thoughts on privacy  
in the law bc i wanted to ask u abt that  
but all ur thoughts on it seem to be totally  
cut up btwn the thesis & the essays & also  
filtered thru jefferson’s bullshit libertarian  
assgrab of anideology & its hard to figure  
out what YOUR actual thoughts on it are.

it’s*** again fuck sorry

anyway your sisters say you’re awesome  
and burr actually expressed an opinion  
abt you so thats saying something.

Angelica’s not really sure how to reply to that. She just types up an email — _Great! I’ve heard very little about you, Burr’s secretive_ — before attaching the file she keeps, the outline of her thesis that includes the parts she had to leave out.

She dicks around on the computer for another little while after she’s sent it off, gets distracted on the backlog of articles she’s bookmarked to read, before she sighs. Eliza’s offline on Skype. Might as well turn in early, she figures, and get started sifting through the classifieds in the morning.

###

Angelica falls into a rhythm. She wakes up early, goes to the gym and then for a run; she eats all the healthy food in her fridge and manages to go out and buy more. Her resume is her first priority, and she finishes it quickly, lets her dad look it over and pretends not to notice him keeping a copy; she’s sure he’ll drop hints to his coworkers, find out if anyone knows about an opening she could fill.

She doesn’t hear back from Washington, but she’s not waiting by the phone; she’s never been that girl. She’s not giving up on him, but this is a necessary part of a flirtation. If the mere thought of kissing her in a staircase was enough to scare him off, this isn’t going to work.

She’s been emailing with Hamilton — it’s a rush, and a reminder of how much she’s missed this, thinking at high levels, and he’s practical enough to offset her ivory-tower tendencies. They don’t talk about their personal lives, except in vague asides; Angelica gets the impression he’s fallen for Eliza. She hopes that’s not true, but she doesn’t want to ask.

She talks to Peggy more often than Eliza, these days, since Eliza’s still swamped preparing for her social work certification. Angelica worries about her, about how much Eliza puts herself into everything she does. Angelica is worried Eliza will give away all of herself, end up burning out; she can’t raise this with anyone, though. Not even with Burr. She even threw Jefferson a bone, wrote him for a recommendation and congratulated him on his latest publication. Angelica doesn’t think about John’s... offer. Proposal.

A few non-profits have reached out to her; she managed to get one interview in before she leaves for New York, and it went well, she thinks. She’s not sure she’s interested in working there, but it’s always better to have competition. Multiple offers.

Two days before Angelica’s off to New York, she gets waylaid by Washington’s aide while leaving her father’s office after lunch. She’s been dressing up, a little, since she ran into Washington here, and apparently that’s about to pay off.

“The senator would like to see you,” the kid says, his face earnest as he holds open the door to Washington’s offices. “If you have a moment.”

Angelica follows him inside.


	5. Chapter 5

Washington’s offices are laid out exactly like Angelica’s father’s, at least at first glance. When Angelica looks around a little more closely, it becomes apparent that it’s actually a mirror image, left-right flipped. Like hotel rooms.

The office is largely abandoned, only a few staffers at their desks. Most of them are eating, though; salads out of plastic snap containers, or foil-wrapped sandwiches from the commissary. It’s after one; Angelica is surprised to see the office so empty. Maybe Washington’s staff just takes lunch late.

The aide leads her back and to the right, through the requisite small maze of cubicles, and stops at the door with Washington’s name on it. There are two rooms, an outer office with an empty desk — not just vacated for lunch, but empty, nothing on it at all — and then a connecting door to Washington’s own office, tucked away in the building’s corner. It’s the same set of rooms her dad uses as his office, but the layout’s backwards; this whole situation gives Angelica a sort of not-quite deja vu, memories tilted through a funhouse mirror.

The kid opens the inner door, frosted glass window; nothing in here is visible from the cubicles or the rest of the office.

“Miss Schuyler for you, sir,” he says, and steps aside to let her walk past. Where did he learn his manners? He’s straight out of her mom’s Emily Post.

“Thank you, Lafayette,” Washington says, looking up. Angelica sees the kid give a jerky nod, and he shuts the door behind himself as soon as Angelica’s fully inside.

Washington is handsome, of course; Angelica can’t look at him, here on his own turf. Home field advantage. He belongs here. The space looks nice — corner office, of course it’s got windows, not that the view is much to speak of. Angelica looks at the half-empty parking lot over his shoulder, anyway. It feels safer.

“It’s good to see you again.”

“Yes,” Washington says. He shuffles some papers around on his desk. “Would you like to sit?”

Angelica kicks at the chair across from his desk, hooks her ankle around the leg and pulls it back. She slouches into the chair, and then sits up primly, tucks her heel against an ankle and tucks both feet under the chair, angles her legs and folds her hands in her lap.

“What can I do for you, Senator?” Angelica says.

“Angelica,” Washington says, and she looks at him. He looks uncomfortable, it’s all over his face; she’s never seen him look anything other than utterly composed. It’s incongruous, this powerful man in his office, looking guilty as a scolded dog. “I’m sorry if this has been — you’re certainly under no obligation to be here if you’d rather leave.”

“I want to be here,” Angelica says. “Do you? I mean,” she says, and she can already feel her face burning. Extemporaneous speaking, with high stakes for the outcome: she hates it. But she’s gotten good at it. At least this isn’t her thesis defense. “Do you want me here, is what I meant.”

She turns that sentence over in her head for emphasis, as Washington sits back in his chair and scrutinizes her. Do _you_ want me here. _Do_ you _want_ me here. Do you want _me, here_.

“I think you know that I do,” Washington says, finally. “You’re very beautiful.”

“Hm,” Angelica says. She’s... perhaps the word is disappointed? She expected better; she didn’t think Washington would resort to —

“It’s hard to compliment a woman on her intelligence without sounding patronizing,” Washington says. “But I mean that too.”

“It’s hard to compliment a woman’s appearance without sounding trite,” Angelica says. “But you did that, so.”

Washington winces.

“Wordplay isn’t my forte,” he says, blunt and not-quite apologetic. “I’ve never been very good at it. I’m sorry if I’ve offended you.”

“I’m not _offended_ ,” Angelica replies, a little stung. He stares at her for a second, mouth slightly parted and eyebrows angled up at the middle. Angelica realizes her arms are crossed over her chest and her shoulders are up around her ears, and makes an effort to relax. She puts her hands back in her lap.

“Christ,” Washington says, pressing his thumb against his temple and metacarpals against the ridge of his brow. He’s got big hands, spread out over his face like that. He murmurs — mumbles — Angelica’s not sure she’s supposed to be able to understand it, at least: “This is not how I wanted this to go.”

He puts his hand down, firms his jaw. “I’d like to take you out. Before — your father mentioned you were leaving for a trip to the city? I’d like to see you before you go.”

“Oh,” Angelica says. 

Washington’s face is guarded. He’s decisive enough to express interest but not vulnerable enough to do it in anything other than a declarative statement, won’t indicate eagerness or enthusiasm. _Men_ , Angelica thinks, not quite fondly.

“I’d love that,” she says, which is true. “But — well, two things. I’m leaving the day after tomorrow, so, scheduling, do you even have time, and also, um. I didn’t realize you talked to my d— my father about me?”

“We’re colleagues,” Washington says, still mild. “He’s proud of you. And I may have... inquired. When I didn’t hear from you.” 

“It was your move,” Angelica says, still a little stung, hating how immature she feels, like she’s been reduced to some girl waiting by the phone. “You could have _called_.” 

Washington quirks the corner of his mouth into a smirk; it’s devastating. “I’ll do better next time,” he says. Angelica huffs, smiling back despite herself. She can tell he’s trying to be charming; that doesn’t mean it doesn’t work. 

“You better,” she says. “So. You wanna take me out tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?” Washington says, eyebrows raised. “I thought maybe tonight —”

“Can’t do tonight,” Angelica lies blithely. 

“Alright,” Washington says, easy as anything. “Tomorrow, then. I’ll clear my schedule. What time’s your flight on Thursday?”

“I’m not flying,” Angelica says. “My train leaves at four, but I’ll have to pack, so.” 

“Understood,” Washington says, seriously, like she’s briefing him on polling numbers or something. “I’ll have you home by midnight.” 

“What, am I gonna turn into a pumpkin?” Angelica says, bemused. “You can keep me out late. Up late.” 

Washington turns his gaze back to his papers, and fidgets with them. Rearranges a stack of file folders. “I wouldn’t want to presume,” he says, carefully. 

“Well, you can,” Angelica says, feeling brave. “Presume all you like.” 

Washington looks up at her, hands still on his desk, his thumb pressing a folder open along the seam of it. Angelica stands. “ _Call me_ ,” she says.

He nods. She picks up her purse and steps around his desk. “Are there security cameras in here?” Angelica asks, mostly teasing, because god: this is the dumbest thing she’s ever done. She’s in so far over her head here.

Washington shakes his head, but glances at the door. “Angelica —” he says, and she rolls her eyes and tugs at his sleeve. He pushes his chair back and stands; even in heels, he’s still a few inches taller than her. 

She rests her hand on his lapel, curls her nails around it and tugs him a step closer. She’d pull his tie, but — well, there’s nothing stopping her, is there? She can do that, if she wants. Angelica slides her hand down the line of his suit, thumbs the button undone, and lets his jacket fall open. He makes a tiny shuddering noise, and then his warm hand is curled around her elbow.

“I got your note,” Washington rasps out as Angelica presses her palm against his stomach, through his shirt. She’s barely listening, just lets out a hum in response. He is in _good_ shape for a guy his age. 

“I’m glad you like the watch,” he continues as Angelica slides her hand up the center of his chest. He is _cut_. Angelica wonders what his workout routine is like. Wants to watch him hit the gym. She can feel him flexing, a little, under her hand, which is a rush. Getting him to show off for her. 

“It suits you,” he gasps, finally, as Angelica forms a fist around his tie and pulls him down to bite at his mouth. 

###

Kissing him is easy. Washington slides his hand from her elbow to her low back, pulls her in closer. His head is bowed to meet hers even as she’s straining up on her tiptoes. 

He gasps when her teeth dig into his lower lip, lets out a noise low in his chest. Both of her hands are inside his suit jacket, just his shirt and undershirt, two thin layers, between her hands and his warm skin. 

Angelica is burning up. He slides his tongue into her mouth, slow and leisurely, twists it to curl against hers. She rocks up onto her toes, locks an arm around the back of his neck until Washington lets out a tiny surprised noise and disconnects, loses the kiss. 

He rocks back a half-step and braces a hand on her back to pull her after him. She presses her tongue into his mouth and he sucks at it, eager. Angelica didn’t shut her eyes, though he did; she can half-see his cheeks hollow. 

His fingertips are pressing into her back, five blazing points. His fingernails scrabble against her blouse for a moment and then he’s got it tugged out of her skirt and his hand is on skin, rough calluses as he's rucking up her camisole, his short nails digging into her spine, her ribs, his fingertips sliding under the waistband of her skirt. 

“Fuck,” Angelica mumbles, pulling away to kiss at his jaw. Nowhere near his shirt collar, of course — she’s careful, but she _is_ wearing lipstick, and she’s not sure how badly it’s smudged. 

“Language,” Washington says, an autonomic response. He still has his eyes closed. 

Angelica looks up at him. “Fuck,” she says again, more clearly, looking up at him through her eyelashes. When he opens his eyes to frown at her she has to kiss him again. There’s lipstick all over Washington’s mouth, some on his jaw; she’s sure her own face can’t look much better. 

She presses back in, puts her other arm around his neck and lets him keep rubbing his hand over her back, rest his free hand on her hip to pull her against him. Angelica teeters a bit on her heels and he lets her go; she presses her breasts against his chest and listens to him groan, all pained, into her mouth. 

“God,” he says, “ _Angelica_. You’re —” 

He can't finish his sentence, kisses her jaw instead. Squeezes at her waist. She laughs a little, despite herself. 

“Yeah,” Angelica says, “same to you”, and presses a kiss to his cheekbone, rests her forehead against his shoulder for a minute as she gets down off her tiptoes and catches her breath. 

Washington rubs his hand over her back, but it’s soothing, not... He smooths her camisole back down, too. If he tries to tuck her shirt back in she’s going to get him in the instep with her heels.

His other palm is spread out over the side of her neck; his thumb tilts her chin up. He kisses her again, bending so she doesn’t have to strain upwards.

Washington’s mouth is soft, not chapped at all, and moving sweetly against hers, just lips and little swipes of his tongue, until Angelica hears herself bleat out a tiny protesting noise; then he nips at her lower lip, sinks his teeth into it and sucks, before soothing the sting away with his tongue.

She doesn’t know how long they stand like that, kissing slow, like it’s the most normal thing in the world; everything blurs into a vague haze of hollow desire, burning heat wherever they’re touching, the chaste distance he’s imposed between their hips.

There’s a knock at the door. Angelica jumps, but Washington doesn’t pull away. He’s stroking her cheek, her hair, her neck, and he has his eyes fixed on her. 

“Senator,” his young aide’s voice drifts through the door, “you have an appointment in twenty minutes; you asked me to remind you?” 

“Thank you, Lafayette,” Washington replies, before ducking down to fit his mouth against Angelica’s again. The door to the outer office closes, faintly, in the next room. Washington pulls Angelica closer, slides himself against Angelica after all, a tease pressed against her hip. She bites her own lip as he pulls out of the kiss and steps back. 

He heaves in a breath. “You should...” 

Angelica know she can’t be seen leaving his office like this. Or, well, she’s already starting to tidy herself up — she undoes the zip of her skirt to tuck her camisole and blouse back into it; Washington’s eyes track her fingers — but even looking presentable, it might be questionable. She should have a significant head start, so she’s not being hurried out as whoever Washington’s appointment is with comes in. 

“Yes,” Angelica says. “Call me when you finish work tonight, to set up a time for tomorrow. Ideally not in your office.” 

She hunts through her bag for a packet of moist towelettes, and pulls one out to wipe off her lipstick. She folds it in half when she’s finished, and hands it to Washington. He takes it, visibly uncertain what to do with it. 

“You’ve got...” Angelica says before reclaiming the cloth. She dabs at Washington’s jaw, wipes it across his lips until he’s presentable again. She turns the dirty side of the cloth to Washington, shows off the lipstick marks. “All better.” 

“Ah,” Washington says, briefly perturbed. It’s like he’s never kissed anyone before. 

“Anyway,” he says, rallying, a bare hint of awkwardness lingering in his voice, “I’ll pick you up tomorrow. What would you — I know a number of good restaurants, or —” 

He doesn’t seem to know what they should do together. Angelica wonders if he was going to offer to take her out to the pictures or something. Old-fashioned old man; Angelica’s not sure why this is surprising her. 

“You’re married,” Angelica points out. “And a senator. I’m not going to be seen with you at a fancy restaurant in town. Just get a hotel room and we can get room service” 

When he looks vaguely dissatisfied — probably wanted to wine and dine her, or maybe he thinks she’s being too forward or moving too fast — Angelica takes pity on him and adds, “We can watch a movie or something.” 

“Yes,” Washington says. “That would be nice. I’ll call to set up time.” 

He hesitates before ducking in to say goodbye, a sweet little kiss. Angelica grabs her purse off the floor and steps out, carefully shutting his office door behind her. She's not quite sure she's disappointed that he wants to treat her right, but it's definitely... weird. None of this is what she expected. 

She fixes her lipstick in the empty outer office before she leaves. 

### 

Angelica doesn’t spend too long worrying about the date, or whatever it is. It’s much harder for her to keep the kiss out of her mind, but she does her best. 

She chews at her lipstick on her way home, licks the waxy flavor off her teeth. Normally Angelica uses lipstain when she’s gonna be kissing people, or at least something that doesn’t smudge. Lipstick tastes like kissing, but it tastes more specifically like kissing girls; it’s strange to link that sensation, that sense-memory, to Washington. 

By the time she gets back to her apartment, her lips are bare again; she hangs her coat up by the door and puts her orchids out in the sink to soak. 

Angelica still isn’t sure exactly how long she’ll be gone — she wasn’t planning on much longer than two weeks, at most, and, well, now there’s Washington to come back to, apparently, but who knows — which means someone else is going to have to come and feed her fish and water her orchids. 

She just changed the water for her fish, which lasts three weeks; no one will have to do that while she’s gone. But: the bettas are much more high maintenance than she thought they would be, her orchids need watering once a week, and the bonsai Eliza got her for her birthday keeps ricocheting wildly between root rot and leaf scorch. It needs attention from someone with a greener thumb than Angelica, who has mostly kept her plants (and fish) alive out of sheer stubbornness. 

Angelica never _intended_ to acquire a collection of houseplants. Or her fish. It’s just that people joke about her: how maternal she isn’t, and how much time she spends throwing herself into school or work. Cut-throat, type-A, workaholic bitch, that sort of thing. 

Angelica has always been fiercely loving, adored her sisters; just because she doesn’t show it to the whole world doesn’t mean it’s not there. But she’s never been particularly good at the little things; she’s not great at dating — obviously — or at the little _just-thought-of-you_ gestures that solidify friendships and relationships alike. 

Sometimes Angelica feels she had to teach herself how to be gentle, which would probably be profound — oldest child early-onset responsibility, guilt about her parents’ late-in-life decision to have kids after all — except that Angelica’s attempts at loving-kindness are mainly fueled by a stringent cocktail of stubbornness, competition, and spite. 

At least she can keep a damn fish alive for longer than three weeks, for chrissakes, which is more than Eliza can say, for all that Eliza is the most considerate and caring and nurturing person Angelica knows. Practicality and good research triumph yet again over sentiment, Angelica thinks, grimly, as she tilts flakes into the fishtank. Eliza’s going to have to learn that lesson at some point or her job’s going to eat her alive. Like, talking to your houseplants is all well and good, but at some point you’ve just gotta make a chart to track when they need watering, and follow it. 

Angelica’s phone rings; she picks up and wedges it between her shoulder and ear as she fills up her small watering can at the sink. 

“Hello?” she says, flipping the faucet back off and wiping her hands dry. 

“It’s me,” says the voice on the other end of the line. It’s John. Angelica waits to feel guilty for having hoped to hear from Washington, or — perhaps more importantly — for having kissed another man, but she doesn’t. 

She’s not even worried John will be able to _tell_ , or anything; he’s never been very good at gauging her emotional state, and in any event, Angelica mostly feels calm. Like she used to feel when she had to cover for sneaking out at night in high school. She’s calm, and confident, and doesn’t feel the need to justify herself. 

“Hey,” she says, and picks up her plastic watering can. 

“So,” John says. “You’re getting in at, what, seven thirty, eight? On Thursday?” 

“Something like that,” Angelica agrees. The watering can has a long, slender spout and no perforated hubcap at the end. She tilts the tip over the roots of her bonsai and pours; the water soaks in. She adds a little more until the soil looks rich and damp. 

“I was thinking,” John says. “I’d love to see you. We could get dinner,” he adds, hopeful and sly. 

Angelica remembers what he said, about wanting to propose; she has every desire to avoid the inevitable confrontation for as long as possible. She should have taken the 6:30 train, which gets in at ten or after; he wouldn’t have suggested dinner with an arrival time that late. 

“I’ll probably be wiped,” she says, “from the train. I was just going to get some food at Penn Station and get a cab back to Aaron’s.” 

“God,” John says, distaste slathered over his tone, “I don’t know how you can eat like that.” 

“I know,” Angelica says. She’s having a hard time finding — normally, John talking like that just inspires amusement. But she can’t find it; she’s mostly just waiting for the conversation to end. “You can take me out to brunch in the morning, and I’ll definitely see you Friday.” 

She overwaters her spider plants. 

“Alright,” John says. “Well. I can’t wait to see you. Love you,” he adds, perfunctory and meaningless. 

“Love you too,” Angelica says, distracted, and hangs up. 

### 

Washington doesn’t call back until well past eight that night. Angelica has programmed his office and cell numbers into her phone, off his card; the call comes from his private number, though, which she only recognizes because she has it half-memorized. She’s certainly stared at it long enough, his handwriting on his business card. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, after greetings have been exchanged. He sounds stressed. 

“Something came up?” Angelica guesses. She’s not surprised. 

“I may be able to see you tomorrow,” Washington says, “but I likely won’t be out of meetings until late. As late as tonight, or later.” 

“Okay,” Angelica says. 

“I truly am sorry,” Washington says. “I’ve been looking forward to this.” 

“I mean,” Angelica says, “we probably can’t go out, or whatever, but I could meet you somewhere?” 

Washington hesitates. “You might be seen driving over,” he says. “I’d offer to pick you up — my car has tinted windows, and I drive myself — but, again, I have no idea when I’ll make it out of meetings.” 

Angelica’s a little surprised he doesn’t have a driver; she thinks about the fact that he takes the stairs to his office, the incongruous private phone number, the careful way he hides the truth about his marriage, and it makes more sense. Washington is a private man. 

“Not to be too forward,” Angelica says, and Washington barks out a laugh. “I mean it!” she says, just a little prickled. “It’s just a thought. But you could come over to mine whenever you get out of work. My apartment building has a garage, so it’s not like anyone would necessarily see you... going in the front door. Or whatever. I can give you the code.” 

Washington is quiet. 

“Again,” Angelica says. “It was just a thought.” 

“No,” Washington says. “It was a good thought. I suppose it’s a bit reckless, but then this whole affair is certainly —” 

He breaks off with a sigh. 

It’s strange to hear the word _affair_. That’s what this is, Angelica knows, but she can tell he didn’t mean it like that, was just referring to it as a thing, a situation. The word sends a thrill through her nonetheless. 

“Yes,” he says. “You can get the information to me at this number, via ‘text message.’” Angelica can hear the air quotes. “I’ll give you a call tomorrow when I have a better idea on the timing.” 

“Great,” Angelica says. She can feel the flutter of anticipation building in her stomach. She’s pretty sure this is going to fall through; he was busy tonight and expects to be working even later tomorrow. Washington’s old-fashioned, a gentleman; he wouldn’t want to bother her late. 

On that note: “You have to call,” she says, “whenever you get out of work. Don’t worry about being a bother. I’ll probably be up late anyway.” 

“It might be late,” Washington cautions. “We only got out early today because we tabled everything until tomorrow. I don’t want to wake you up.” 

Angelica rolls her eyes. Please. Washington’s idea of late probably means, like, ten. Midnight, if he’s feeling wild. 

“I won’t be asleep,” she says. “But if I do go to bed for some reason, I’ll silence my phone. It won’t wake me up. If I wake up without having talked to you, or if I don’t have a missed call, at least, I’ll be mad, though.” 

“Wouldn’t want that,” Washington says. He doesn’t sound like he’s joking; his voice is grave. 

“So you should call,” Angelica presses. 

“I’ll call,” Washington says. “And I hope to see you tomorrow.” 

After she hangs up, and puts her key out under the mat, Angelica makes sure all her things are packed. She won’t have much of anything to do tomorrow except sit around in an agony of anticipation hoping she’ll get to see Washington, which is not ideal, but at least it’s a distraction from how badly New York is likely to go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AND YET AGAIN SHE DOESN'T MAKE IT TO NEW YORK.
> 
> thank u to everyone who held my hand through this chapter, notably iaintinapatientphase & horology.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter features a character (angelica) accidentally triggering herself into having a panic attack without being aware either of those things are happening, & also (related) discussion of underage attraction, age gaps, and power dynamics (nothing Bad Happened, but angelica spends a lot of time this chapter thinking about the concept).
> 
> I AM SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG, Y'ALL. i am now done with my semester and taking things at a more relaxed pace and settled in for the summer, so: expect more writing from me.
> 
> thank u to emily for bullying me into publishing this chapter.

Washington doesn’t call until after six, the next day.

Angelica has been filling up time, doing all the thing she normally considers herself too busy for. She didn’t visit her dad at work; she’s taking the day to herself, curled up at home.

She should probably be catching up on one of the half-dozen shows Peggy’s recommended to her, so she has something to talk about when she gets into town, but instead she wakes up early and streams season two of Grey’s Anatomy on the roku for the millionth time. She can fast forward through the bits about Denny; she’s never found that plotline compelling.

She switches to decaf at noon. There’s no reason to caffeinate; she’ll be up late anyway and all coffee will do is make her jittery.

She's honestly not really expecting Washington to come by. He's well known for being old-fashioned, religious, conservative — in his personal life if not in his voting record; that in and of itself wouldn't rule out an affair, no matter how nontraditional his relationship with his wife is. Allegedly. Allegedly is.

Angelica is deeply aware of how hypocritical — people, politicians, men, democrats, whatever — can be. There's a reason she's still pursuing him; she does think she's got a shot. It's just — none of this has been playing out like she had planned. Or imagined. And she's imagined a bunch of things, since she started crushing on him in middle school and other older men started noticing her. She's always imagined he'd be a gentleman. In most of her fantasies — in any case, she'd always held him in some strange mental limbo.

Washington was a good man, and he would never have made a pass at her at fifteen, even in her fantasies — he wasn't anything like Jefferson, whom she’d perceived, at the time, as a sort of roguish young-for-politics charmer.

But at the same time, Angelica had spent all her time around Washington craving his attention, craving validation and praise from him, wanting him to think she looked pretty and grown-up. She wanted him to talk to her the way Jefferson did, but differently. She wanted him to mean it.

Angelica had just as many fantasies about growing up gorgeous and stunning and blowing Washington away — which are all feeling extremely vindicated; it feels exactly as good as she’d hoped — as she did about him showing up at her school, or showing up at her parents’ house to see her, or about meeting her favorite movie star, or back-staging after a concert. Stupid, useless thoughts; fantasies extrapolated from the flattened flashes of personality she’d had access to.

But later on, too, when Angelica was a legal adult with a college degree and Jefferson back in her life, she spent a lot of time curled up on her side and seething, moonlight — really, light from the streetlamp situated directly outside her window, but moonlight sounds more poetic in retrospect — slanting across her face, her alarm clock accusingly beaming numbers no one should see from that side of wakefulness. She still made comparisons.

She’d found Jefferson’s attention half-flattering as a teenager; since then, Angelica has met older men who hit on her, and she didn’t like them, and she didn’t like it as much as she had when she’d assumed it was insincere. What she’d been flattered by as a joke-flirt to a teenager now made her feel queasy; the way Jefferson looked at her hadn’t changed. What was inappropriate between a professor in his thirties and his twenty-two year old student was magnified ten-fold by the fact that she’d been thirteen when he’d started looking, and fourteen when the comments started.

It never went anywhere with Jefferson — obviously, she would have said, until he’d made it clear he’d have had her anytime she wanted, as if she could have been trusted to know what she wanted at that age, as if she hadn’t had a boyfriend the whole time Jefferson'd worked with her, as if he hadn’t been in a position of authority over her the whole time, as if he hadn’t nearly ruined her career — and it certainly wasn’t going to go anywhere now.

He was still a brilliant man. She still — after everything — thrilled when he praised her thinking; she still felt honored and vaguely flattered that he’d wanted to work with her. But it wasn’t... She wasn’t happy about it.

Washington is different. Angelica thinks. Or at least hopes.

He doesn’t seem comfortable with execution, with follow-through. She’s not sure that’s because he doesn’t have a good rate of return when picking up — possible; attractiveness is subjective, Angelica supposes, though it suggests a rather pathetic picture, Washington always trying to pick up and never getting taken up on it — or because something about her is different. If she’s different, Angelica’s not sure if it’s in a bad way, or what.

He’s casual about mentioning his wife, and their separation; she’s not sure he’s telling the truth about that, but she’s also not sure she cares. She has a boyfriend; a fiance, if she’s sensible about things. So Washington’s married. She knows it’s not the same, but she does have a better understanding of what that means. She’s not seventeen anymore.

Washington seems to want her, at least; she’s made most of the moves so far, but he’s pursuing her. He’s careful about the strangest things — security cameras in the stairwell, but he’ll meet her in his office. He doesn’t know to wipe lipstick off his face or check for it on his collar, or he was flustered enough not to think of it; he doesn’t want her seen driving to his place, but he’ll offer to come over to hers. He’ll kiss her and pull her shirt half up her back the second their lips made contact but he won’t let their hips touch.

Angelica just doesn’t understand this. This whole situation’s left her off-guard, off-kilter, misaligned. But what’s she gonna do, _not_ hook up with the hot older guy she’s been fantasizing about practically since her sexual awakening?

Angelica swings her legs down off the side of the couch, points her toes towards each other and stretches her arches against the floor. Suddenly she can’t watch Meredith Grey throw herself after her married boss; even Cristina, from whom Angelica has always drawn a great deal of inspiration and validation, is making her feel queasy. Doesn’t anyone on this show sleep with anyone they’re allowed to?

Angelica is sure that her life isn’t like the affairs on TV, but there’s always that little nagging voice, that this is all it boils down to. Some spectator yelling "solve your problems by just fucking someone else" and throwing popcorn at the screen.

She has to turn the Roku off, go back to the Netflix menu. She’ll watch something else — there are half a dozen shows Peggy watches on her list, but none of them really catch her eye. Nothing political: Jefferson introduced her to Sorkin and she hasn’t been able to stomach it since. And anyway, political dramas feel a little on-the-nose.

Angelica ends up getting her laptop open and checking Facebook while the Netflix selection screen blandly accuses her from the TV. She can find something to watch, she’s sure.

Alex is online. It’s not surprising, really; he hasn’t had any luck getting a job without his bar results. He’s still working the same Starbucks job he had through undergrad and law school; at this point he’s a manager who’s got health insurance and stock options, or something, and he gets free food. He’s probably just not working today.

Normally when he’s not working he’s doing freelance writing; Angelica loves letting him think out his argument in hyperbolic blocks of text crammed into chat windows too narrow to let her scroll to the top of his message. Sometimes, she argues with him, because it’s nice to keep her hand in.

Once, she wrote half an article for him in three dozen Facebook messages; the morning it was published, she woke up to a venmo for 35% of what Alex got paid for writing it. It didn’t come to much, barely enough to cover her weekly coffee habit, though she knows it must be a significant amount to Alex, living alone in New York.

She’s never dared to send the money back, though; it was a very sweet gesture.

 _What can I marathon for_ — Angelica checks the clock — _five to ten hours?_ She hits enter with a click. Alex is typing his response within five seconds.

 _10 hrs is 2x as long as 5_ , he sends back. _thats a wide range. how much time are u tryna kill?_

 _I might have a job interview after work hours or over dinner tonight_ , Angelica sends. It's _almost_ not a lie. _But it’s short notice._

 _so closer to 5hrs but with the option to extend_ , Alex sends. _sure. have you watched the west wing? it’s sort of perfect, you have to watch about that many episodes to really get into it but if you hate it it’s easy enough to stop._

 _Oh_ , Angelica types. _I don’t like Sorkin._

 _the mans brilliant!_ Alex replies, after a short pause. _but fine. u dont watch stuff thats airing now do u? have u seen person of interest it’s sort of relevent to your thesis work._

 _Okay_ , Angelica sends, finally, because she doesn’t want to argue about the merits of Sorkin’s dialogue right now; she’s not interested in petty displays of intellectualism. She’s going to watch TV with Alex because it’s fun and because she’s bored, not as some sort of proof of her credentials as a member of the intelligentsia.

###

After six episodes of continuous color commentary by Alex, the video stretched over most of the screen and Skype chat stretching in a narrow strip to the side, Washington calls from his private number.

 _brb_ , Angelica sends Alex as she picks up the phone.

“I don’t have much time,” Washington says.

“You’ll be working late?” Angelica says. She’s not surprised.

“Very,” Washington says, and he sounds tired. “No one’s willing to compromise.”

“Sure,” Angelica says. “Just text me when you’re wrapping up, yeah?”

She hangs up and goes back to watching.

###

Angelica wakes up at twelve past two in the morning, not sure what woke her. The TV’s still running; her first gummy-eyed shifting to grope for the remote lights up her computer screen, which had gone dark. She sits up, swinging her legs over the edge of the couch and moving the laptop from her stomach to the coffee table as she turns off the TV.

Her skype chat with Alex is still open. She can’t have been asleep asleep for much longer than an hour, maybe an hour and a half; she has over 200 unread Skype messages. She glances at her phone: she got a text from Washington at just before midnight, saying he’d be done soon, and there’s another one on her screen from fifteen minutes ago, letting her know he’s on his way.

Her computer pings again as she’s closing it: another message. She flips the screen shut anyway and just sits for a moment, rubbing at her eyes and trying to get rid of that post-nap zombie feeling.

One of the floor lamps is on, turned as far down as it can go on the dimmer extension cord. The rest of the room is dark. The LED clock on the cable box ticks up. _02:13._

Angelica bites down on a yawn. She’s trying to muster up enough energy to haul herself to her bedroom when she hears a key in the lock.

Angelica has a jangling moment of realization, half a dozen thoughts in her head at the same time. That the noise must have been what woke her, followed by a confused terror at the concept of intruders picking her locks, immediately negated by the fact that she specifically told Washington to come by, and then her confused relief dissipates and she’s left with all the pent-up adrenaline, her heart pounding.

She considers pretending she’s not home, flinging herself under the couch before he comes in, or something, but the door opens before she gets the chance to, a wedge of light spilling into her apartment. Angelica winces, just a little, despite herself; the light is bright.

She’s still wearing house clothes, baggy sweatpants rolled over at the hips and ankles, and a tank top with no bra. She slept weird, with her neck cricked over the arm of the couch; her hair’s probably gone flat in the back. She doesn’t have makeup on, which is honestly half a relief, because at least she knows it hasn’t smudged.

Washington lets himself inside, slips through the door. He deposits the key on the side table, and closes the door behind himself.

Angelica’s eyes take a moment to recover from the glare of the hallway lights. She pinches her thumb and forefinger together over the soft skin at the inside corners of her eyelids for just a moment, pushing the skin towards the bridge of her nose.

Washington doesn’t say anything. She expects him to apologize for waking her, but he doesn’t. He just stands there, leaning back against her front door all silent and brooding, probably watching her. Angelica slides to her feet, wiping her palms where her sweatpants cling a little to her thighs as she stands.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” Washington says, finally. “I’m happy to leave.” His face is still inscrutable, and his tone is polite and — not political, but almost disinterested. As if he hadn’t gone to truly ridiculous lengths to get here. As if he didn’t want anything from her. Angelica tamps down on the shifting unease that thought sends lapping against her diaphragm.

“I’m sorry I dozed off,” Angelica says. And then, remembering that Washington did well responding to reciprocity, and uncomfortable with his emotional reserve despite herself, adds: “Stay,” tacking on a “please” for good measure.

Washington shifts his weight onto the balls of his feet, pulls away from his slight lean against the door and draws himself up to his full height. “Alright,” he says, as if he hadn’t already indicated he would.

He looks around. The apartment is still dim, half-lit, but it seems they’ve both adjusted by now.

“This apartment is lovely,” he says, and Angelica feels like she’s burning up, embarrassed and nervous and angry all at once.

“My parents furnished it,” she says. She hates that he’s engaging her like this, on the field of polite formality where she’ll never be able to win. She wonder if it’s a power play, if he’s trying to keep her off guard on purpose.

“Sorry again I wasn’t up to meet you,” Angelica says, finally. She can do meaningless, impersonal small talk, too. “I fell asleep on the couch.”

Washington’s face is still. “You had said you might be asleep when I got in. I don’t mind.” A beat. “You told me not to worry about waking you.”

There it is, the half-accusation to put her off-guard. He really is excellent at this. All of what he said was true, even.

Again, Angelica wonders why he’s talking like this. He can’t be hiding nerves, or attempting to stifle a useless impulse to compete on any playing field the way _she_ has been.

She wonders if he’s waiting for her to kiss him again. Angelica studies his face, his eyes, his mouth; his expression might be stoic or expectant, impossible to read.

She takes a step towards him, around the coffee table, and his jaw tenses. He stays silent, watching her. Angelica smiles, and Washington’s throat works.

His eyes aren’t disinterested anymore; they’re burning. She takes another few steps, so that they’re close enough that he could reach out and touch her, if he wanted. Not too far into his personal space, but closer than she’d stand in public.

She reaches out and puts a hand on his chest. He modulates his breathing.

Angelica is torn. She’s sure she knows where the night is going, and of course she’s pleased that Washington wants her enough to let her see it, but she’s also hyper-conscious that he’s in front of her in what’s really an intensely flattering suit, and that she’s wearing a ratty moth-eaten tank top and sweatpants from, _christ_ , from her high school volleyball team’s winning season. It’s not exactly the lace-edged satin set she’d picked out after half an hour’s consideration of her lingerie drawer.

She rubs her hands over his chest for just a second, before she thumbs open the button of his coat and slides her hands up his chest, nudges the jacket open around his shoulders until he covers her hands with his, to hold them away so he can shrug off the jacket. While he’s pulling it off she takes two measured steps backwards, before she gets lost in touching him.

“Feel free to get comfortable. There are hangers in the hall closet, for your jacket, and there’s — you mentioned you had food at the office but there’s some takeout in the fridge, and wine on the counter if you want some. I’ll just — I’m going to fix my makeup,” Angelica blurts out, because he’s rolling up the sleeves of his shirt to show his forearms, before fleeing to the bathroom.

###

She’s not wearing makeup, of course, but it’s a good excuse with most men; they generally don’t know what touching up makeup entails or how long it takes. The cleverer ones work out it’s a euphemism, but generally not for what, so it remains a foolproof escape route. It has never failed her before. 

Angelica takes a moment to collect herself in front of the mirror. She splashes some cold water on her face, and then scrubs over her face with her fingertips, working them against her skin. She has to rub at her eyes a little, because they’re gunked up from her nap, even though attacking them with cold water means they’re going to get dry and puffy. 

She puffs out a breath, and dabs her face dry with the underside of one of the neatly folded hand towels sitting on the bathroom counter. Her mouth tastes like death; she knocks back a swig of listerine and gargles, swishes it around her mouth and spits. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand; her spit clings to her lips and the skin, just a little, not quite slimy. 

Angelica feels shaky. She’s dizzy with sleep-confusion; the cold water helped but she’s still worried she might be sick. 

None of this is going the way she’d planned. The way she’d expected to, if she’d spent serious thoughts updating her teen fantasies to fit the now. Washington seems to have had other affairs; he was, at the very least, discreet and practiced about flirting. His second phone number, the ease with which he scrutinized her, all of it led her to some erroneous goddamn conclusions about what kind of fling this was gonna be. 

In her teenaged fantasies, Washington was a good man, who never had affairs, who would be faithful to his wife — but at the same time, Angelica wanted to tempt him. Even though she didn’t want him to notice her, because she didn’t want him to be the kind of man who would notice a fifteen-year-old. 

And: she would have wanted that kind of noticing, coming from him, but the mere fact of it would make him the wrong sort of man. Her desires had coiled into spirals, twisting around her anxieties, dragging her thoughts down into frenetic tamped-down jangling, stress with no way to let off steam and no real understanding of its cause. As a teenager, Angelica had been stupid: who the hell knows what they want when they’re sixteen, seventeen? 

She knows what she wants now, though. 

Angelica is just pulling herself together, her hands still white-knuckled on the edge of the sink, when there’s a single sharp knock at the doorframe. 

“Is everything alright in there?” Washington says, his voice muffled through the door. 

Angelica is half-incredulous. She’s only been gone a few minutes. How long does he think it takes to fix makeup? 

“Just a minute,” she calls out. She breathes in as she straightens, deep and steady, and holds eye contact with her reflection. Angelica counts to ten as she exhales.

**Author's Note:**

> come hang out with me [on tumblr](http://spikenards.tumblr.com)!


End file.
